


Dollhouse

by QueenForADay



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Adopted Children, Adopted Soon-to-be-Murderer Daughter, Angst, Cannibalism, Children, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Gentle Sex, Grinding, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannigram - Freeform, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Smut, Will Loves Hannibal, Will's killing game is strong, season 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 21:15:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 90,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11067288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Will and Hannibal survive their fall and flee to Europe. While there, they have an encounter with an unsavoury character who threatens their safety. Having swiftly dealt with the threat, Will comes back to their shared villa with an unexpected stray.





	1. Atrani, Italy

It’s a bit extravagant to call them fallen angels. That’s what TattleCrime calls them.

They were once described to Will as wicked beasts, rebellious and vile things, that were throw out of heaven. In a sense, Will sees how the description could fit. They were once respectable people among Heaven. Wickedness set in like a fever sickness. Their literal fall off the cliff only made the term stick.

He doesn’t breathe life into his past life. TattleCrime is the only link to it, and he occasionally looks over the site once in a blue moon. Freddie still believes them to be alive. In the comments of some of her reports and theorisation about where they could be, people have their own theories. Among them are the correct ones: that Will and Hannibal swam to shore and took off. Some berate Freddie, telling her to just give up the hunt. And then there’s the very few of ‘fans’, and when he gets to their comments, Will shuts off the computer.

He still remembers it. He still feels it.

The cold, and the fear, and the slight sliver of hope: those things seemed to evade them until Hannibal hauled them both out of the sea. It was a small battle in itself trying to breathe life back into Will. His body wanted to give up. _Let him die_ , it seemed to scream at Hannibal even after they left the beach and fled to a cabin.

Chiyoh was waiting there with everything he had asked for. Both of them shared silent, powerful glances, before the weeks of recovering began.

A shiver runs up Will spine at the memories. They all flood back to him, cresting over him and dragging him into cold darkness, just as the sea had done. He drums his fingers on the wooden desk, the rhythm being the only thing keeping his mind here.

Atrani is wedged between the sea and the hills. It offers enough protection from prying eyes, especially since Will’s noticed that the town is mostly filled with young children and elderly grandparents. Sometimes the tide brings in wealthy foreigners from all corners of the world, but they rarely stay.

Will is no less careful though.

He closes his laptop and looks down to his notepad. There’s a new boat anchored just off the beach. Will’s been watching them for a few days. The normally quiet town is louder now, like how a sudden shatter of glass can destroy silence. It’s harsh and hurtful. The people of the town carry on though. The new tourists keep themselves to the bar near the beachside, keeping their sounds to one area at least.

Out of the three new tourists to this island – two men and one woman – it’s one man he’s had his eye on for a few days. Every day, when he would wander to the sea with his fishing supplies just before the sun peaked over the horizon, he would scope out the boat. Anchored a bit away from the beach, he knew the make of the boat. It wouldn’t be huge, but it would take a short swim to get out there. One of the men is just as deplorable as himself. Will has seen his story on TattleCrime, Freddie spewing stories about what the man now in the town has done.

Will knows not to take Freddie’s words at heart. She has a special talent of spinning stories. But it is something that grabbed his attention when he was watching the website for his own story. And what Freddie had to say, Will amended, fit the man perfectly. A short, stout man in his late fifties, his wife was a bit younger than him, but the opposite. Where he was loud and obnoxious, she was quiet and sheltered.

Will continued to go to the beach every morning, but taking a particular route down a road that passed the bar. He just wanted to gauge the people he was reading about. The other man was similar to the first: brash and loud and wholly uncivilised.

Will gets up from his chair and closes his notebook. Hannibal is cooking downstairs; the aromatic smells have been carried up through their villa for the past hour. Will’s stomach rumbles slightly.

When he wades down the stairs and into the kitchen, he shoves his hands into his jean pockets.

Hannibal casts him a look before returning to his cooking. “You spent longer than usual in the office,” he notes, “is everything alright?”

Will nods. “Freddie is still thinking up new ways for us to have survived.”

It gets a huff of a laugh out of Hannibal, a mere curve of the corner of his lip and his shoulders moving slightly. “It was a tough fight for us to stay in this world. I wouldn’t be surprised if she started making grand assumptions of how we did it.”

Will strides over to the countertop. He watches Hannibal work for a moment, noting how he moves within the kitchen. It’s like how he kills. He knows what his body is doing, and it moves just like water – free flowing and fluid, but deadly.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says suddenly.

Hannibal casts another look up at him, and nods.

Will swallows. “We haven’t…we haven’t killed since the fall. We’ve been running for a few weeks now, and…I don’t know if this is an odd, or demented, question but…”

Hannibal waits. He holds Will’s gaze while he waits for the words to come to the other man.

“There’s an itch that needs to be scratched,” Will says simply, rubbing the back of his neck, “and I think I know who might help.”

Hannibal hums simply. He turns off the burners and walks to the other side of the kitchen to fetch some plates. “Is that why you’ve been spending more time in the office? And more time watching Ms Lound’s website for days on end?”

Hannibal places the plates down on the worktop.

He gives Will a look. “Does this have anything to do with those obnoxious hell raisers that are down by the beach?”

Will pauses. “Yes,” he eventually answers, “I’ve…I’ve been watching them. Something doesn’t feel right. If what Freddie says is true, they won’t be missed if something were to happen.”

While plating up the food – some freshly caught fish Will brought in that morning – Hannibal clicks his tongue. “You know better than to trust what Ms Lound says William.”

“I know that.”

“But you still feel like you need to interfere?”

“Yes.”

Hannibal doesn’t reply.

 

* * *

 

 

Getting to the boat is easy. Anchored only a few metres out from the beach, Will hauls one of the rowboats into the water and rows out within a few minutes. He clambers on to the boat, taking his knife out of its holster by his waist. The lights are off, and the only light showing him his bearings is coming from the full moon overhead.

It shimmers off of the water and shines bright white light against the surface of the boat.

He hears a noise. He freezes and listens. It’s a sob.

His grip on his knife tightens as he continues to stalk through the boat. The deck is clear. He steps down to head towards the cabins, but stops again at the sight of light shining from underneath the door.

Another sob breaks the silence and Will heads for the door. There’s muffled talking from inside, words being spoken that he can’t make out.

When he steps into the cabin, his eyes wander to the body of a man already on the floor. Above him, and standing in a forming puddle of blood, is the man Will has heard so much about, and his wife being held in front of him: a knife pressed against her throat.

The man’s face is flushed, damp with a few beads of panicked sweat dripping down. His wife is wide-eyed, frantically looking at Will: the eyes of a normal man who’s just snapped.

“I’ve s-seen you hanging around,” the man spits and stutters, “I told them. I told them! Killers! There are killers here!”

Will looks at the knife at the wife’s neck. It’s pressed against her flesh, her throat bobbing with choked off sobs. Will doesn’t move a muscle, and he remains silent.

“I could turn you both in, you know!” the man continues with his ramblings, “I have friends – IMPORTANT friends, quiet high up in the FBI who would pay a pretty penny for you and the other fag.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” his tone is measured.

The man is shaking. The trembles in his hands aren’t even being hidden. His wife’s grip on his arm is leaving angry red marks.

Will tightens his hold on his own knife.

The man spits out, “You and that other one! I’ve hear the stories – of you two running away together. It’s disgusting.”

Will notices a brief moment where the man is so consumed with spewing hate that he relaxes the hold of the knife slightly. Within a second, Will rears his arm back and flings the knife passed the woman’s neck and into that of the man’s. He goes backwards, but has the opportunity to slash the woman’s neck as they both go down.

Will stumbles forward, pushing the man off of the woman.

He presses his hand to her neck. Suddenly, the flood comes back.

 _You’ve done this before. Abigail. You’ve done this exact thing for Abigail – and look how all of that turned out_ -

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” he mutters, applying pressure to the woman’s wound.

She grabs his arm, staring panicky up at him. “Em-Emilia!”

Will frowns. “What?”

She raises a shaking arm towards a wooden door. “M-My baby,” she sobs, a gush of blood spewing through Wills’ fingers. Eventually the woman’s eyes glaze over, and her body goes limp. It’s an odd thing, Will notes, seeing a person die. You can tell the exact moment where they leave. The rest of you then just shuts off like a computer. Will looks towards where the woman was pointing and slowly gets to his feet.

Slowly, he creaks open the door.

There’s a little girl inside.

She’s backed into the corner of the bunk, hands pressed against her ears. Slowly, Will raises his hands. “Emilia?” he asks softly.

She waits a moment. “Have the monsters gone?”

Will pauses. Looking back into the main cabin, at the three bodies lying on the ground, he swallows. “Yeah, yeah they are/”

He slowly steps into the room, making sure that he doesn’t frighten her more. “They’re gone now Emilia, but you need to come with me, okay?”

She frowns slightly. “Why?”

The poor girl can’t be more than four. She has baby fat clinging to her cheeks, rounding her face. Sandy blond hair is gathered up into two messy pigtails. She looks so innocent.

Will slowly lowers himself down on one knee. “They’re gone, but more might come. I’ll protect you. But you need to come with me.”

She seems to think about it for a moment, before slowly crawling over the bunk and towards Will. He lifts her up into his arms and looks around the small cabin.

“We’re going to play a game, okay?” He grabs a blanket from the small bunk and throws it over the girl in his arms. “We’re going to play hide-and-seek. Can you shut your eyes for me?”

She does.

“Good! Now, if I hide you under this blanket, it’ll protect you from the monsters. I’ll bring you to safety, okay?”

Almost immediately, the arms around his neck tighten slightly and she buries her head into his shoulder. He makes sure that the blanket covers her, and she’s shielded from the blood scene he has to walk back through.

When he clambers back down to his rowboat, he moves the blanket back from the girls head and wraps it tightly around her frame. The cold night winds are beginning to sweep in off the ocean.

“You’re Emilia?”

The girl nods against his shoulder.

“That’s a very pretty name,” he adjusts her slightly so that he has both arms to row the boat. While going to the beach, he tries his best not to think about what the girl might have gone through. What might have happened had he not hit his mark on the man’s shoulder. He dealt with his wife without a second thought. Would he have done the same to this girl?

Will frowns slightly. Probably.

When they get to shore, it’s a five minute walk to the villa. Emilia, he notices, starts to fall into a sleep while he walks. Hannibal greets him at the door. He eyes Will’s bloodied shirt and hands, and then the bundle in his arms.

“Another stray?”


	2. Atrani, Italy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fallout from the previous night.

Will expects the girl to be distant for a while – that’s what happens. He still thinks back to that night: killing those two men and watching the woman bleed out in front of him. When he thinks of her blood warming his fingers, almost always, a memory of Abigail pops up. That’s when the walls in his head shut back down again.

But the girl seems…okay. That night when he had trudged back home to the villa with her, he had put her to bed in one of the spare rooms. She’s managed to stay clean of the mess made aboard the boat, already half-asleep in Will’s arms. When he gets into the spare room, and reaches down to pull down the sheets, he feels her small arms tighten around his neck.

The girl looks at him with wide eyes, brimming with tears.

Something is within him. Something he hasn’t felt in a while. All that swims in his head is images of Abigail – the days he spent, and the more days he wanted to spend, in the river teaching her how to cast a line, reel in a fish, how to gut it. All plucked away from him.

He feels a pang of protectiveness for this girl. She’s so small.

He can’t help but want to ask Hannibal not to take this one away too.

 

When he steps into their shared room, he thinks that Hannibal really does have the ability to read minds.

He’s already asked Will about the boat. Will made sure to set the boat sailing towards the sea. It would be long gone. No one in particular would come looking for them.

But something else was still lingering.

“I suppose you want to keep this one?” Hannibal asks from the other side of the room. He’s folding his shirt and laying it neatly over the back of a chair. His bare back is littered with small scars, some paler than the others. A knotted mess of a scar meets Will’s eyes when Hannibal turns out to face him. Right on his shoulder is the bullet wound that nearly took Hannibal from the world.

The scars on Will’s own body are beginning to fade. The one left on his cheek is the most visible, just because there is a gap in his beard where the scar is.

Will shoves his hands into his pockets. “She has nowhere else to go,” he replies simply. His gaze hardens slightly. “Why do you ask that?”

Hannibal gives his version of a shrug, and strides over to the opened dresser and fishes out cotton sleeppants. “I’ve noticed that you have been restless since we arrived here. I thought that it could be because you missed companionship in the form of your pack.”

Will fixes him with a stare. “Are you liking a young girl to a dog?”

“You missed companionship, that’s all. You and I have inhabited this villa for far too long by ourselves.”

Will sits down on the bed. It’s big for the room, and the room itself appears bigger than it actually is. Helped by cream coloured walls and bay windows, they tend to leave one of the balcony doors open. Their villa looks out on the beach, and throughout the night fresh, crisp sea air blows into the room.

It helps Will through the night, Hannibal noticed. He would often be awoken by Will’s twitching and shuffling on his side of the bed. Since fresh air started blowing into the room, he’s been somewhat sated.

Will looks down at his hands and sighs. “She’s staying,” he says firmly, “she’s alone and needs someone to look after her. I’ll do that.”

 

Hannibal is an early riser. He seems to wake up when the sun does. As soon as it peers out from over the horizon, his eyelids flicker open. Once he’s awake, he can’t get back to sleep, and there’s no point lying around and doing nothing. Sometimes he’ll spend a moment looking at the body beside him.

Will’s hair has grown since they’ve settled here. It’s always brushed back, but while he sleeps, it falls on to his forehead and eyes. Sometimes Hannibal will reach out carefully and draw back the strands from the other’s eyes.

Soon he gets too restless. Will won’t be awake for another hour or so; as is their routine in the morning. Hannibal quietly gets out of bed and throws on one of his shirts. The weather tends to get warmer as the day goes on, but in the mornings there ocean air is always cold.

When he steps out from the bedroom, he pauses.

At the other end of the hall, poking out from the slightly opened bedroom door, is Emilia’s head. She jerks back in when she spots Hannibal and shuts the door. The hallway is silent for a moment. Hannibal slowly pulls his own bedroom door closed and starts to walk down the hall. He hears the faint sound of shuffling inside.

His old house back in Baltimore was big, often too big. It held his own personal life and professional life, but seemed a bit too big for him. When Will would spend the days and nights there, at least he had someone else to occupy the space there. Will’s strays were tolerated. They were a part of Will, so when they did get the opportunity to come into his own house from time to time, Hannibal didn’t mind. Sometimes he found great companionship in them when Will would be away.

But now on the continent, they were left behind. So was a piece of Will.

This stray, though, Hannibal didn’t know much about. He didn’t even get a chance to see her face, it was so tightly pressed into Will’s neck last night.

When he reached the door, he put his hand on the handle and paused for a moment.

“Emilia?” he says softly.

He doesn’t expect a reply, but his eyebrow raises when he hears shuffling on the other side of the door. He takes his hand away from the handle just in time for the door to crack slightly open.

Inside, he sees a bright blue eye peering out at him.

“Emilia?” he asks again, crouching slightly down to the girl’s level.

She’s hidden mostly behind the door, but nods at him. “Hi.”

Hannibal’s lip twitches upward. “How are you today?”

She shrugs.

He doesn’t expect her to say much. Will didn’t once he got back. Clinical terms swarm his head. What he would have diagnosed her if they were back in Baltimore. How he would have told her parent or guardian that she’ll be scarred.

He suspects she’s already been scarred by them, and what Will did was a blessing in disguise.

The door creaks open a bit more until he can see her face a bit better: chubby cheeks and a round face, framed by messy blond hair that has fallen out of her hair ties.

“I’m going to make breakfast now Emilia, if you would like to join me?” he holds out his hand to her.

She looks at it for a moment before putting her smaller hand into his.

 

When Will comes down from upstairs, he pauses at the door to the kitchen.

Hannibal has grabbed a chair and put it in front of the table. There’s a mess of flour and straggly bits of dough stuck to the surface, but Will’s eyes are drawn to Hannibal. He’s showing her how to knead bread dough, letting her play slightly with an offcut of his own dough.

She has a focused look on her face as she tries to make hers look like Hannibal, but she eventually gives up with a huff.

“What’s going on here?” Will asks, folding his arms over his chest.

Emilia’s eyes jolt up to meet his, and she smiles slightly. “I’m helping,” she waves her floured hands over the mess she’s made. Hannibal, Will notes, hasn’t seemed to have had an aneurism yet.

Hannibal gives Will his own brief smile. “I needed help with making the bread for today. Emilia offered to help.”

She nods.

“Good,” Will smiles, walking to the kitchen, “I’m starving.”

There’s a closed packet of pancetta ham, a few wrapped chesses and a bottle of olive oil side some crumpled brown paper bags. He raises an eyebrow at Hannibal. Of course he had time to go to the market. It just makes him think how long he was sleeping for.

“Emilia, could you wash your hands and lay out the table on the porch, please?” Hannibal asks, folding the last of the dough together and putting it in a lined loaf tray. The girl hops off the table and goes to the sink, fumbling with the taps for a second before Will went over to help her. Within a few minutes, she was already walking out the door with a few tablecloths in hand.

“She seems to like you,” Will says simply, watching her fumble holding the cloths as she walked into the small back garden of the villa.

Hannibal wipes his hand on a dishtowel. “I went to the market this morning while you were asleep,” he says, brushing off Will’s comment. When he looks at the other man, something glints in his eye. “There was talk of a certain tourist’s absence.”

There was a murmur, nothing else. Like Hannibal, the man and his wife seemed to like walking through the market on nice mornings before going to a tavern for the rest of the day. On the quiet coast, things were noticed. Foreign people who travelled here we watched like hawks. Even though the couple and their associate didn’t seemed to be much liked, there sudden absence was noted.

Will just stared back at Hannibal. “They won’t find the bodies.”

“I’m sure they won’t. But even so, their absence in the town is warranting a few raised eyebrows.”

Emilia stands at the door with one of her little hands held out. “Will, can you help me?”

“Of course,” he smiles at her before turning back to Hannibal. “What do you suggest, then?”

Hannibal puts the towel on the counter-top and takes a silent moment. “We leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: yourqueenforayear.tumblr.com
> 
> Come say hello, a helpful chat, or see my eventual decent into delightful madness.


	3. Clamency, France

They took a train next. Planes and airports were too busy, too full of people talking all at once which just turned all of their individual voices into one cacophonous sound. The station they arrived into was a large one, but with it being early in the morning, only a small crowd gathered on the platforms for their morning commute.

Will holds on to Emilia’s hand while they navigate their way from the train to the outside of the station. Hannibal has been quiet about where their next living place is going to be. Will has learned to stop asking as he won’t get a response.

Emilia is eventually hauled up into his arms when she lets out a big yawn. “Getting tired?” he asks her. She buries her face into the crook of his neck and nods.

Hannibal eventually leads them to a parked car outside the station. Will raises his eyebrow. “Where did you get this?”

“Old contacts that owe me a favour or two,” Hannibal answers, taking Emilia from Will and putting her gently into the back of the car. “We’ll be driving for a few hours, _dovana_ , you can sleep now.”

She gives him a small nod before falling asleep.

“Will you tell me where we’re going now?” Will asks from the passenger seat of the car.

“Somewhere quiet.”

 

* * *

 

 

They stay in the village for a few years. The locals warm to them, loving Emilia and always greeting her when they take walks around the village and surrounding fields.

On Emilia’s seventh birthday, Will hands her a tin box. She looks at it perplexed for a moment before she clips the clasps open and looks inside.

“They’re fishing lures.” She looks up at him, her eyes suddenly sparkling. “Can I fish with these?”

Will nods. “You’ve asked me to teach you, and now you can start.”

She hops off the stool by the table and wraps her arms around him in a tight hug. “Thank you Dad.”

Once upon a time, that had caught him off guard. She called him that one night, about six months after they left the Italian coast, after they left Emilia’s dark past behind her. Will spent the night rambling to Hannibal about the word, about the meaning behind it. Hannibal merely sat and listened, offering the occasional touch to his shoulder or back.

After that night, she kept calling him that, and over time the heavy feeling in his core went away and replaced with something else. Hannibal eventually earned the name Papa in the same way. Will spent a night trying to get Hannibal to accept it the way he had done. Not many people can get past Hannibal’s walls. The girl managed to smash through them within a few weeks.

Clamecy is the village that’s hidden them away for a few years now. It’s a short walk from their house in the centre of the town to the river where Will usually fishes in.

He collects the rods and bait and heads out with Emilia. Her hair is longer now: long blond ringlets that bounce when she runs ahead of him towards the small river near the village. Will carries the rest of the supplies to the water’s edge, where Emilia is peering over into the water.

“What will we get today?” she asks, watching the water carefully.

He puts down the supplies and starts attaching the bait to the hook. “Some salmon hopefully. Your Papa has been asking for it for dinner tonight.”

She nods and steps back from the river’s edge. She races back to Will’s side to watch him place the bait on the hook and finish up the preparation. “Watch carefully,” he says to her, “you’ll do the next one.”

A smile overtakes her face and she walks with him to the river’s edge. Will casts his line, smiling lightly at how Emilia watches the movement. “Now, we wait,” he says simply.

Emilia waits patiently beside him until they start reeling in fish. He likes these mornings. The ones where the village itself would still be asleep, and it would just be the two of them out on the river. He likes watching her. Her eyes are always so wide when they go fishing: watching and learning for the next time they’ll go out.

The line snags, and Will reels in a tiny fish. The closer he pulls it in, he realises it’s a baby salmon. They must be swimming from the neighbouring river. He pulls it up out of the river and unhooks the wire from the corner of its mouth.

“What do you think, Emilia?”

Emilia frowns. The corners of her lips are pulled down and she just stares at the wriggling fish in Will’s hand.

“It’s a baby fish,” he hears her mumble.

Something tight constricts around his heart. He gives Emilia a reassuring smile. “Will we put him back then, so he can grow up?”

She looks at him and nods.

Will makes sure that none of his hook or bait is left in the fish’s mouth before placing it gently back in the river. It swims off instantly.

When he looks back to Emilia, she’s smiling again. She rushes forward to hug his middle, wrapping her small arms around him. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

 

When they’re finished at the river, it’s almost four hours later. Will packs up the last of the equipment, and hands the roped up fish to Emilia to carry back to the house. The rest of the village has woken up by then. Most of the villagers say hello to them both, some of them asking Emilia about her catch for the day. She beams with pride when she shows them the fish she helped Will catch – two smaller salmon, smaller than the others, but big enough for Hannibal to use.

When they get home, Emilia toes off her boots at the door and rushes towards the kitchen. Will puts the equipment into a small supply cupboard of the house and throws his own boots inside. He hears Hannibal and Emilia in the kitchen, talking between themselves, and Will’s heart warms. It’s a feeling that he doesn’t get used to.

Perhaps it has ties to Abigail. Losing her made the ground crumble beneath his feet, and even though they’ve been living together for the better part of  a few years now, he’s still climbing back up the ruins.

Sometimes he sees Abigail in Emilia. The girls don’t look remotely like each other, but it’s something in her eyes – a glint that’s there for both.

Will walks out to the kitchen and sees Emilia standing next to Hannibal, propped up on a chair she’s pulled over to reach the countertop easily. She’s watching him prepare the fish, rubbing the scales off with a knife, and then filleting it easily.

“Are you cooking tonight, Emilia?” Will laughs lightly when she shakes her head.

“No, I just want to see what Papa is doing.”

“She’ll be cooking for us soon,” Hannibal assures him, then looking at the girl next to him, “she has been learning a lot.”

“She can start fishing for you soon too,” Will replies, sitting at the other side of the table. When Hannibal raises an eyebrow at him, he explains. “She’s getting good at fishing. Maybe next time she can fish for you and I can spend the morning sleeping.”

“No Dad,” she whines, “we go together.”

Hannibal finishes the rest of dinner and they eat out by the back of the house. The day is a warm one, with the sun perched high in the sky and not a cloud in sight. There’s a slight murmur of the villager’s talking in the streets around their house. The closed off garden offers them enough privacy to sit out here and just listen.

“Do you think we could stay here?” Will asks. His voice is barely audible.

Hannibal finishes the rest of his wine. “It’s tempting,” he answers simply. He’s liked this life. He has enough money stored away to keep living like this, without a job, for a few years. It’s a quiet life.

But there are days where they’re both restless.

They still have their outlets of cooking and fishing, but it’ll only go so far to keep that growing itch scratched.

“Where would you like to live?” Will looks over to Hannibal, sat near to his side on the long wicker couch.

Hannibal hums. “Munich. It would be a change from our countryside living here, but the city holds a certain beauty about it.”

Will nods. Emilia looks over to them both, but goes back to finishing the rest of her dinner.

“Munich it is, then.”


	4. Munich, Germany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal goes hunting again.

The city, like the village beforehand, remains their home for a year. Hannibal enrols Emilia in a school there and he goes back to practising therapy. Their house, just outside the centre of the city, is large enough for Hannibal to have his office and practice in the ground level, while upstairs is their living space.

Starting practising again caused tension between the two of them. Will didn’t want people to be in their home. It would increase the chances of them being discovered. If they were on their own, just the two of them, he wouldn’t have been that worried. They’ve dealt with worse odds. But now? Now they had a child to worry about. A child that lived every day none the wiser as to who they really were.

But Will saw what Hannibal was like. Restless. When they were on the boat, reborn from the cliff and the sea, he paced. The pacing continued from place to place, no matter where they lived. The novelty of the place would eventually wear off, and Hannibal would have to do _something_. So he began practising again.

The last of his patients leaves for the day, a troubled middle-aged woman who has been taking therapy for almost half of the year now. She leaves with her usual “ _danke, Artz Miller_ ” and the front door closes behind her.

Will waits on the top step of the stairs. Hannibal usually takes a few minutes between his last patient leaving and going upstairs to his family. Will has always given him that time. But he still waits. The staircase and the hallway at the bottom of it are so quiet. He can hear the faint sounds of Hannibal shuffling around in his office: turning off the lights and clearing up his notes for the afternoon.

The click of the office door sounds, and Hannibal steps out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. He looks a bit more worn down these days, with strands of his lengthening hair out of place, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, and a certain look missing from his eyes.

He locks the office door behind him. Officially done for the day.

Emilia got home an hour ago, full of her usual school stories of what had happened that day. She’s in her room, hidden behind mountains of books that Hannibal keeps getting her. They vary in languages. Every time they move, she picks up a new one.

Will watches Hannibal stand at the bottom of the stairs. He leans against the bannister, arms folded over his chest. “She’s doing well in her literature class. Frau Alscher said she’s doing a bit too well. She asked me at the school gate today if we are giving her extra reading material.”

“Difficult woman,” Hannibal sighs starting to ascend the stairs, “trying to put a cap on a girl’s interest.”

Will catches the other man gently by the arm when he’s within reach. “You know, Emilia thinks Frau Alscher is full of shit, anyway. She’s not going to listen to her. She’s doing her own thing.”

Hannibal gives Will a look, before sighing again. His shoulders visibly relax before he reaches out to take Will’s hand in his.

“You’re bothered by something,” Will notes.

“I just don’t believe that a teacher can cripple the knowledge of a girl that’s clearly bright-“

“-Not that Hannibal,” Will cuts in. He ignores another look from Hannibal and presses on. “Talk to me. Something’s been wrong since we got here.”

The hallway is silent for a moment.

“I feel like a caged animal,” Hannibal says simply. In his hand, Will can feel a slight tremor in Hannibal’s hands. _There it is_ , Will notes in his mind. _The restlessness is back_. He interlinks their fingers together.

“Then do,” Will brushes a stray strand of hair away from Hannibal’s face. “I’m sure the city can offer up more rude creatures than a village can.”

Something flickers in Hannibal’s eyes – something that’s been reined back and hidden for a few years.

 

* * *

 

 

Hannibal goes hunting that night.

Will stays at home, leaving the other man to go by himself: to reawaken what was in there for so long. Emilia stays in her room, leaving Will in the dimly lit living room to think. The TV is on some random channel, serving only as background noise. The living room is only lit by a dying fire: the roaring flames now diminished into a flickering glow. A bottle of wine sits half-empty on the coffee table in front of him, an empty glass beside it.

Alone, he wonders about Hannibal. _Who has he picked? How will he go about it?_ He can feel his heartbeat stutter. _Does he need help?_

Soft padding against the hallway’s wooden floor brings him out of his thoughts.

Emilia is at the doorway, one of her blankets wrapped around her. “Why are you awake?” she asks, rubbing her eyes.

Will laughs softly. “I could ask you the same, young lady.”

She shuffles over to the couch and sits down beside him. _Sit_ is the wrong word. She practically presses her back against him and lets her legs lie over the rest of the couch. Will lets her. “If your Papa saw you-”

“-Where is Papa?” she cuts in, tightening her blanket around her. She pillows her head on the side of his stomach. Will eventually let his fingers come through her hair, gently easing out knots in some of the strands. It’s something she liked when she was younger: it kept her calm.

 “He’s visiting someone he knows, that’s all.”

She rolls her head back so that she can look at him. “ _Visiting_? At ten in the night?”

Will nods.

Emilia stares at him for a moment before giving up. “Alright,” she sighs, closing her eyes.

But she knows. Will feels like she’s always known. The night she came into her lives is what baptised her. He just doesn’t know if she knows _why_ they do it.

He doesn’t know if he’s ready for that conversation. He lets her rest against him for an hour. She dozes in and out of sleep, occasionally shuffling into Will’s body to hold him tighter. He spends the hour carding his fingers through her hair, watching her sleep peacefully. When she does sleep, it’s like she hasn’t aged at all. She still grasps a piece of his shirt in her hand, loosening slightly as she sleeps.

 

* * *

 

 

Hannibal comes home around midnight. Will hears the front door of their house open and close, followed by the soft squeaking of the staircase as it’s being climbed. Will hasn’t moved since Emilia joined him. His muscles started to thrum with pain almost a half hour ago, but he couldn’t bring himself to disturb the sleeping girl.

And that’s how Hannibal finds them. At the top of the stairs, he looks into the living room and sees them. His expression softens.

“You look like you never left,” Will whispers. Physically, he doesn’t look different. His hair and clothes are clean, in place, and almost wholly untouched. He recognises the change in clothes, but in the dimmed light of the room, it’s difficult. But Will can see something else. There’s something different in the other man’s eyes. It’s back. The hunger is sated for now, but Will knows how quickly it can begin growling again.

Hannibal steps into the living room, eyes flickering down to the girl resting against Will. “You were expecting me to come home drenched in blood?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if you did.”

“Not when she’s around,” Hannibal says softly, taking a seat on the couch beside Will. Will leans slightly into the other man’s side, mindful of the girl sleeping peacefully against him.

Emilia fidgets against his side, tightening the grip she has on his shirt. It’s rumpled now, he knows. But he can’t bring himself to care in the slightest. He reaches for one of Hannibal’s hands. Their fingers curl around each other. “How was it?” he asks quietly.

“Satisfactory, but it was missing you.”

Will squeezes Hannibal’s hand. “You know why I couldn’t.”

“I know,” Hannibal replies.

“Did you bring home anything?”

“Not this time.” Hannibal’s grip on Will’s hand tightens slightly. “He was ill. Cancer.”

Will nods in understanding. They’ve had to abandon victims before. Most of the time, Hannibal already knows if their prey is well enough to be consumed. But a couple of caught them off guard, and it isn’t until their blood is spilt or their body is opened that Hannibal figures it out.

They sit there for a few minutes, fingers interlocked, with Hannibal’s thumb gently rubbing Will’s knuckles. The touch is soft, but it sets his skin alight. Eventually, Will leans his head against Hannibal’s shoulder. The fire is dying. The cooling embers aren’t even bright anymore. The ash surrounding them is slowly quelling them. Even with the fire gone, Will’s still warm. Hannibal’s body has always kept him warm during nights.

Emilia begins to stir. She buries her face deeper into Will’s side, pulling her blanket tighter around herself. She’s been fidgeting since Hannibal got home, but Will can see her eyes starting to flicker open. They’ve been quiet, but the girl’s got a bat’s hearing.

“I’ll put her to bed,” Hannibal says, pressing a kiss to Will’s temple and letting go of his hand. When Hannibal gets up from the couch, the movement wakes her up. She rubs at her eyes with a closed fist.

“Papa?” she mumbles.

“Oh sweet girl, let’s get you to bed.” Hannibal hauls her into his arms. Emilia’s sleep-heavy arms wrap loosely around his neck. Will hands him her blanket, and watch the pair go out into the hallway. His heart swells. Hannibal and Emilia, the two halves of his heart. When he gets up from the couch, he takes a minute to get the feeling back in his legs, and stretches out his muscles.

 

* * *

 

 

The door to Emilia’s room is open slightly. Inside, softly lit by her bedside lamp, Hannibal is pulling down the sheets of her bed and places the sleeping girl inside. A smile curls along his lip when he sees her reach for Hannibal again, trying to get back into his arms. He brushes a strand of blond hair out of her face and presses a kiss to her forehead. Hannibal whispers something to her. Something that Will can’t hear. But with that, he pulls the blankets back over her and tucks her in.

Already in sleep pants and a loose, worn shirt, Will slips into their bed in their room. Just across the hallway from Emilia’s. He can hear Hannibal quietly closing out the door, but leaving it slightly open. He can hear his feet padding softly over the floorboards outside, quietening when Hannibal gets into their adjoining bathroom to change. Pulling the blankets tighter around him, Will sighs against his pillow. He wants to pick Hannibal’s brain about his hunt. If he couldn’t have gone on it, he wants to know all about it. Talking about it around Emilia is out of the question: even though she was asleep.

Will’s almost asleep when he notices that Hannibal’s in the room. The other man is softly peeling back the blankets on his side of the bed when Will turns around to face him. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers. There’s no need to. Emilia is probably sleeping. Even though her room is only across the room, and they keep their doors slightly ajar, she never hears them during the night.

Will rubs the sleep from his eyes and shuffles over to Hannibal when he gets into bed. He’s barely lying down when Will has an arm thrown over the man’s abdomen. He keeps himself close to Hannibal’s side. All the questions he had about his hunt are gone now. He needs to sleep. They both do. Hannibal almost immediately pulls Will to his side, as close as their bodies will allow.

“I thought you wanted to know about the hunt?” Hannibal says into the darkness of their room.

Will buries his nose into Hannibal’s neck. He can smell it. Not the blood, but the soap used to get rid of it. His sense of smell will never be as tuned as Hannibal’s, but it’s good enough to pick up the heaviness of the soap masking the odour of blood. “Tell me all about it in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had an idea to rewrite this. Not have the drabbles anymore, but a fledged out series. Then I realised how little time I actually had, laughed, and decided to keep going with this style instead. Updates might be irregular, but fluff will be had. I swear.


	5. Munich, Germany

It’s a normal night for them. Dinner has been cooked, served, eaten, and now they’re lounging in the living room. The fire has been stoked, and it fills the room with warm, comforting heat. Will watches the flames dance around the logs for a moment, absentmindedly playing with Hannibal’s fingers as their hands join together. Emilia reads quietly on the other side of the room, lounged across on a sofa. Hannibal doesn’t even admonish her for having her feet on the leather couch.

Every so often, he’ll look over at her and watch for a moment. She reads quickly. The books Hannibal has in his library downstairs are no match for her anymore. Not since he’s promised to teach her Latin.

He really doesn’t want to think of the night as perfect. Once he thinks that, something will go wrong. They’ve had lots of nights like these. Quiet ones. No hunting, no outside eyes. Nothing. When it was just Hannibal and Will, it was as silent as the grave. With a seven-year-old, they wondered would it remain quiet. With her love of books being stoked by Hannibal, their nights remain quiet. By acknowledging that their lives here have been peaceful, it seems like the universe’s greatest joke would be to smash it into pieces. He would rather not taunt the universe. Right now, Will is content to sit with Hannibal and do nothing.

But he does wonder where it all goes to shit.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up during the night to rushed footsteps against the floorboards of the bedroom. He would panic – grab the pistol in the bedside cabinet – but the footsteps are soft and barely audible. They’re recognisable.

A weight suddenly lands on top of him, pushing the air out of his lungs. The clock reads 04:16. Before he can even ask her why she’s up at this hour, he hears it.

Sobbing. It’s muffled against his abdomen, but he can still hear it.

Looking down at her, her body is shaking and heaving against him.

Will quickly reaches down and takes her arms, pulling her up from the blankets. “Hey, hey, _maus_ , what’s wrong?”

He helps her up into the bed, opening his arms when she jumps into his chest. Her arms are tight around his neck.

Hannibal stirs beside him, but he wakes up almost instantly. Will only notices that the other man is awake when he suddenly sees Hannibal’s hand against Emilia’s back, gently rubbing up and down.

Sobs wrack through her light frame. They both know that she won’t be able to answer for a while. Not until all of it is out. So they wait. Hannibal continues to have a firm touch on her back while Will holds her.

He knows what it might be, and a short glance over to Hannibal confirms what he’s thinking.

“I’ll get her blanket,” Hannibal says, slowly getting out of bed. Without him rubbing her back, Emilia’s arms tighten around Will’s neck. She buries her face into his shoulder. Her tears soak through the fabric of his shirt, but he ignores it. He rocks her gently.

With Hannibal gone, he rests his chin on top of Emilia’s head.

“It’s alright, _maus_. Daddy has nightmares too,” he tells her. His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. But it’s enough for her to hear. Her crying has softened into hiccups and whimpers against his shoulder. He combs his fingers through her hair, brushing it back from her face. “Wanna talk about it?”

She tenses slightly, shaking her head against his shoulder.

“That’s alright,” he says simply.

Hannibal returns with one of her blankets in one arm, and a pillow in the other. The blanket is one’s she’s kept for a number of years. Even with the sheets on her bed, she always has that particular one close to her. It used to be a deep purple. Now faded and bobbling, she still keeps it whenever they have to move.

Hannibal gets back into bed and puts Emilia’s pillow between them. She lifts her head slightly when the bed dips. “Papa.” The word sounds scratchy. Her throat must be raw from crying.

“You’re safe now, _dovana_ ,” he assures her, reaching out to rub her back again. It worked when she was younger, and it still works now.

She’s stopped crying. Her body does continue to tremble though, even with both of them promising her that the monsters won’t come and get her.

They’d make sure that those monsters couldn’t even cross the threshold of their home.

 

* * *

 

 

She finally falls asleep between the two of them. She looks so peaceful. Both Will and Hannibal make sure to curl themselves around her, protecting her from everything beyond their room.

Hannibal makes sure that she’s well covered by the blankets before settling down on his side, facing them both. “What was it tonight?” he whispers.

“She didn’t say,” Will replies just as quietly. He brushes a stray strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. Her face is blotchy now, eyelids red from rubbing at them. She’ll be better in the morning, he knows. This isn’t the first time that she’s come to them in the middle of the night.

He wonders vaguely if she’s ever broken down before and not come to them. If so, how many distressing nights as she spent alone, unable to come to them.

His heart aches at the thought.

Hannibal reaching over their sleeping daughter and brushing his fingers through Will’s curls make the thought race from his mind. It’ll return. But for now, he closes his eyes and sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: yourqueenforayear.tumblr.com 
> 
> Pop by for a chat, or to see my gradual descent into madness.


	6. Munich, Germany

Sunlight streaks through the gaps in the curtains. Lines of morning light crawl slowly over the hardwood floor. Will watches it. He’s been awake for a while now. Lying on his stomach, his arms are tucked under his head while he looks towards the bay-window of their bedroom. There are certain points in the day that ooze calmness. It’s not like their lives used to be. He remembers the pain and loss, how he got to that cliff, and into the depths of that ocean.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Sometimes, like the waves that washed them both away from that old life, the memories come back. They lap in his mind: never roaring out to be acknowledged, but just simply there.

Movement on the other side of the bed shakes him from his thoughts. Before he can turn his head to look at the other man, there’s a firm warm presence looming over the right half of his body. “Mornin.” Will relaxes against the mattress with a sigh.

A warm hand slides under the fabric of his shirt, lighting his skin on fire as the hand crawls up his spine and down again.

“How long have you been awake?” Hannibal’s voice is nothing more than a rumble against Will’s shoulder.

Will closes his eyes and lets warmth seep through him. “Not long,” he answers simply. He hasn’t heard a sound from the hallway yet, so he presumed it’s still too early to start their day. At some point, he would have to get up and get Emilia ready for school. It’s only a few streets away: a journey they always walk together.

Until then, though, he’s content to stay right where he is. His breath leaves his noise as a sigh when Hannibal noses along his neck, moving slowly up towards the shell of his ear. Hannibal’s body above him is firm, pinning him to the bed. It’s not the man’s upper-body that’s keeping him pinned, though. It’s the intertwining of their legs, and a firm push of hips that keep Will’s lower-half in one place.

Will can feel Hannibal moving slightly against him.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, old man,” Will teases, but turns his head to face Hannibal. He’s met with a soft smile – one that tugs slightly at the man’s lips, curving them upward. He turns on to his side, cupping Hannibal’s cheek with his hand. His stomach flutters when he feels Hannibal lean slightly into the touch. Will uses the touch to lure Hannibal’s face closer to his – like a siren enchanting a sailor to follow them overboard.

One of Hannibal’s hands wander down Will’s side, brushing lightly over his side and towards his bone. It stops there. “I would never dream of such a horrendous thing,” Hannibal mumbles against Will’s lips.

“If you want to get Emilia to school on time, then I think one of us should get out of bed,” Will says. He would love nothing more than to spend hours here. When Emilia was younger, and when schooling wasn’t a major concern, she would always burst through the doors of Will and Hannibal’s room, leap up on to their bed, and settle between them. On more than one occasion, more than Hannibal would ever care to admit, any mood that had been between the two men would have been doused like water on a fire. Neither of them ever cared. Emilia just wanted to talk to them both.

Hannibal drops his head, resting his forehead against Will’s. For a moment, they just rest there. Will didn’t know what to expect of their lives since the fall. He knew what it _could_ have been like – constantly running, looking over their own shoulders, never staying in one place for too long. Hunting.

He didn’t expect this. Moments of pure tenderness between the two of them, where the world outside just melted away and left them alone.

Outside in the hallway, a door creaks open and close. The sound is followed by soft padding of feet against the hardwood floor of the landing.  

Hannibal moves to catch Will’s lips in a kiss. When he pulls away, he keeps his nose pressed gently against Will’s. “I’ll walk her to school today,” he mumbles against Will’s lips. Showing much more resolve than Will has, Hannibal moves from Will’s body and gets out of bed. It takes everything in his power not to quickly grab Hannibal’s hand and drag him back.

With Hannibal’s presence gone, a chill starts to creep over his exposed skin. He grabs the sheets on Hannibal’s side of the bed and tugs them over to his, tucking them around himself. Hannibal disappears into their en-suite, and Will can hear the water starting from the tap.

“Promise me not to kill Frau Alscher, if you see her there,” Will says. He picks at the fabric of the sheets with his fingernails. He hears Hannibal chuckle from the en-suite. When he comes back out to the bedroom, he goes straight to their shared wardrobe.

Will fixes him with a stare.

“I mean it.”

“I know you do, _mano meilė_.” He’s silent as he dresses himself – a white pressed shirt, grey sweater, and his usual brogue shoes. When he looks back over to Will, the other man still has that _stare_ directed at Hannibal.

“No matter how much you dislike her, we’re not killing our daughter’s teacher.” _Well, that’s a sentence that has come out of your mouth, Will Graham._

There are three clear, rapping knocks on the door. The same as every morning. _I’m ready_ , they say for her, without her having to come in. Hannibal finishes fixing his appearance before walking over to the door and opening it. Emilia waits outside, dressed in pressed, clean clothes with her bag slung over her shoulder. Her hair is tied back from her face, with only a couple of strands falling down on to her face. She looks slightly puzzled to be met with her Papa, rather than her dad.

“I’ll walk with you today, _dovana_ ,” he explains. Hannibal looks over to Will – a movement that Emilia follows. “Your dad is being quite lazy this morning.”

Will arches an eyebrow at Hannibal. Then again, he can’t bring himself to get out of bed even if he tried. She does walk into the room though, passing Hannibal and walking over to Will. She gives him a tight hug. “Bye.”

He squeezes her back. “Have a good day,” he presses a kiss to her forehead.

“I will,” she replies brightly, before returning to Hannibal and taking his outstretched hand in hers. When they leave, he relaxes back against the bed. Surrounded by sheets, he feels engulfed: but it’s not like how it used to be. He feels safe. Back in Wolf Trap, he felt like he was drowning – swallowed up in sweat and sheets and senses that were too much for him to handle.

Reaching out to pull a pillow towards him, he pushes his nose into it. It seems like Hannibal. Hannibal is his anchor now. He’s the reason why he hasn’t drowned. Ironically.

Will can only be still for a moment, though.

Something scratches lightly at the back of his mind. It’s been there for a while now, a couple of months at most. It’s been nothing more than a tingle: like a tiny insect crawling over skin that disappears when swatted away. But it’s been growing. It’s been growing since Hannibal came back that night, faintly smelling of blood. His sense of smell isn’t nearly as good as Hannibal’s, but Will knows what the pungent hotel soap was trying to cover over.

He wants to hunt. His fingers twitch at the thought.

But he quells it. He would need to talk to Hannibal about it: but he suspects that the other man knows already.

 _Think of Emilia_ , a voice in his mind steps forward, _it was risky enough having Hannibal hunt again. What would happen if you **both** were caught?_

He doesn’t get to go back to sleep.  

 

* * *

 

 

A few days pass quietly. Hannibal continues taking Emilia to school, something that Emilia loves now. Will has tried to take her, but she always asks for her Papa now. Will can’t complain. It’s a couple of mornings to spend lying in bed, not worrying about getting everything ready for the day. Hannibal seems to enjoy it too. Will pretends not to watch as Hannibal and Emilia stand by the door, running through the final checklist before they leave.

He forces his heart to remain in his chest when he sees Hannibal meticulously fix Emilia’s coat and scarf, bundling her up from the cold winds outside.

Will is in the kitchen when Hannibal returns home one day. Standing by the stove, he moves the last of the bacon on to a plate with his toast and eggs. After dropping Emilia to school, Hannibal texted him, saying that he wanted to have a walk through the city and get a few things. He’s been gone for more than two hours, and should have been home a while ago, but Will knows how distracted Hannibal can get when shopping for new groceries.

The front door slamming shut echoes through the house. Will almost jumps out of his skin.

Even though their home is divided into an upstairs and a downstairs, where the entire bottom floor is Hannibal’s workplace, it _does_ take a lot of force to slam the door, for it to be heard upstairs.

But the walls practically shake with the force of it.

Within a few seconds, he hears footsteps coming up the stairs.

A few seconds after that, the door to the kitchen opens.

“Didn’t you once tell me that slamming doors was barbaric?” Will teases. He’s met with silence. When he turns around and actually looks at Hannibal, though, his soft smile on his lips dies instantly.

Hannibal looks _livid_. It’s barely noticeable, but Will has known him long enough to notice the little tell-tale signs of the other man’s emotions trying to peer through the neutral facade. The other man removes his jacket and places it around the back of one of the dining chairs. Not once does he look up to meet Will’s eyes.

But Will can see it.

The way Hannibal’s hands slightly shake as he smoothes out the fabric of his coat against the chair’s back. How his movements are more measured than usual as he stalks around the kitchen.

Will turns to face him, leaning back against the countertop’s edge. “What is it?”

Hannibal remains silent for a moment. He looks around the kitchen, looking contemplative. Like he’s piecing together thoughts in his mind. There’s a soft sound that breaks the silence, though. Will looks over to the opened door to the kitchen and frowns. Emilia stands there, motionless, arms hanging heavily by her sides.

He didn’t even realise she was there. Her hair curtains around her face, obstructing it from him seeing.  

“Tell your father what you told me, Emilia,” Hannibal says suddenly. His voice is measured. The words are overtly pronounced. Will looks between them.

Emilia sniffs. She lifts a hand to brush some of her hair behind her ear. With it gone from her face, Will spots it.

Will’s blood runs cold. A blooming red mark is on one of her cheeks, right on her cheekbone. The skin there is scratched slightly, but the area around it is a mixture of yellow and faded purple.

Without realising it his feet are carrying him straight for his daughter. He almost collapses on to knees in front of her.

“Oh my baby, what happened?”

Tears are welling in her eyes. Will frames her face with his hands and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Go to your room and change,” he tells her softly, “I’ll help you get patched up in a minute.”

Emilia nods and sniffles, rubbing her eyes with her hands. She turns to walk down the hall, almost breaking into a run when she gets close to the door of her room. Will gets back on his feet.

Hannibal’s anger is simmering.

“What happened?” Will repeats lowly.

“I left her at the school’s gates, as we do every morning. An hour later, I received a phone call from the principal telling me that I should collect my daughter immediately.”

Will takes measured steps towards Hannibal. He approaches the other man as he would a wild animal – slowly, without jolting movements, and making sure that Hannibal sees him coming.

Hannibal takes in a deep breath. “There was an incident – a fight, nothing more – between Emilia and another student in one of their classes.”

When Will is standing near Hannibal, he can feel the _rage_ radiating out of the man. Will slowly reaches out, brushing the tips of his fingers against Hannibal’s. “Emilia told me that one of her classmates had been making some hateful remarks about us to the other students. Emilia overheard. She reacted quite brashly.”

Will laces his fingers into Hannibal’s. He knows the other man won’t start to destroy things with his hands if Will’s hands are in them.  

“Frau Alscher told the principal that Emilia started the fight, that she should be expelled-” Hannibal cuts himself off. Fire is in his eyes. Will brings his free hand up to Hannibal’s jaw, rubbing along his cheek with his thumb.

“Listen to me,” Will says firmly, “whatever is going through that mind of yours right now, stop it. I don’t want to hear about what you want to do to that school, Frau Alscher, or the principal. Not yet, anyway. Emilia needs us first.”

He makes Hannibal look at him.

“Do you understand?”

Hannibal swallows thickly, and then nods.

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you angry with me?”

Emilia’s reddened eyes meet him when he looks up at her. A tear streams down her untouched cheek, dropping off on to the fabric of her pyjama pants. He’s dimmed the bathroom light. It was too much for her when he led her in here almost ten minutes ago.

Will shakes his head, taking another antiseptic wipe from its packaging and dabbing it gently against the scrape on her cheek.

“No, _maus_ , I’m not angry with you,” he answers. He could never be angry at her.

There’s a silent moment between them. “Is Papa?”

Will holds his breath for a second. “Not at you, no,” he says softly. And it’s true. He’s not angry _at her_. But Hannibal _is_ plotting the murder, gutting, a meal of Frau Alscher downstairs as Will speaks.

With the last bit of dried blood wiped away, Will tilts Emilia’s head back towards the light. The cut isn’t a cut at all, only a scrape, but he needs to make sure. The bruise on her cheek isn’t as bad as he thought it was.

“We’ll get some ice on that,” he says simply, putting away the rest of the first aid kit and packing it into the cabinet under the sink. They've got an icepack somewhere.

“Dad...I didn’t mean to hit Jacob-”

“-Emmy-”

“-But he said mean things,” she rushes out, her voice shakes over the words, “I asked him to stop but he wouldn’t! And then Frau Alscher got involved and she doesn’t like me anyway!”

Will catches her hands in his. “Sweet girl, listen to me. Breathe.”

He maintains eye contact with her as she tries to suck in deep breaths in through her nose and out of her mouth – like her Papa showed her after another episode.

When he feels her hands stop shaking in his, Will squeezes them gently. “Listen: you have nothing to apologise for. Your Papa and I will sort it out. We promise.”

She picks up something on those words. A meaning that he laced through them. Her arms go around his neck in a tight hug. “Thank you, dad.”

Will puts her to bed with a glass of water and a couple of aspirin tablets. “A nap will do you good, baby girl,” he explains as he pulls the curtains closed. It’s still bright enough outside to keep the room lit slightly.

Within a few minutes, she’s sleeping peacefully – tucked in and settled for the night. All the worry that had been etched on her face since coming home fades away with every moment she sleeps. When he’s sure that she’s in a deep enough sleep, he moves from his vigil and leaves her room. Hannibal is moving about in their room. With his back turned to Will, he rifles through a cabinet in one of the drawers on the other side of the room. Hannibal must hear him in the room, though, because he turns around slowly. He lets his hands fall to his side.

In one of his hands is a knife.

Will strides towards the other man, snatching the carving knife from his hand. Hannibal’s fingers fall away from it without much fuss.

“You took the last one,” Will says. He tightens his grip on the knife’s handle. It’s one Hannibal had made – one that he kept in his home in Baltimore. The blade is polished and gleaming.

He feels Hannibal run the back of his fingers against his cheek. “Beautiful boy,” Hannibal sighs, “enjoy your hunt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have atypical/walking pneumonia. I'm home from college for a while. 
> 
> Which would be fine if I didn't have +7,000 words of a project to finish by the end of the month. I'm a Nanowrimer. I can do that in my sleep. But my god, am I stressy about it lol.
> 
> [I've spent 4 days writing this instead of recovering and writing for my project lol]


	7. Baracoa, Cuba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving to a new location, Will and Hannibal have some alone time.

Berta Alscher is found the next day in the _Frauenkirche_ , dismembered, gutted, and posed in front of the cathedral’s altar. Slumped against the pure marble altar, her lifeless eyes stare down along the aisle towards the cathedral’s door. They greet the congregation of the morning mass

Her arms are spread out on either side of her. In one hand is her heart – flecked with drying blood, but wet red liquid still oozes out of the ventricles and veins, through her fingers and on to the once-pristine marble floor. In her other hand is what remains of her brain. Parts of the cerebellum are missing, as is the temporal lobe. Will took those. He left everything else to her. He didn’t need it. He certainly didn’t _want_ it.

Will shoves the cooler into the back of the car. Their front door closing has him looking up from the trunk. Over the car’s roof, he sees Hannibal walking down the driveway, the last of his bags in one hand, and Emilia holding on to the other. The girl looks at Will before silently getting into the backseat of the car. She knows what he did. But nothing in her face shows revulsion or rejection at the thought of his actions. If anything, he sees nothing but the slight suggestion of a smile on her lips. He continues to pack away the last of their things.

It’s too early for any of their neighbours to be awake. They need to move quickly. It was unspoken between them what needed to happen: Will would hunt, while Hannibal stayed and got rid of anything that needed to go, and packed anything that needed to come. He had woken up Emilia, dressed and got her ready, and told her to take anything essential. All she has bundled with her in the car is her stuffed toy Hannibal got her years ago and her blanket. On her lap, Will spots, are a couple of books.

A sudden shrill screeching of police sirens jolt through him. Slowly raising his gaze from the trunk of their car, he sees two police cars flash pass their townhouse and down the street, taking the fourth turn left into the main city. _They found her, then_ , he thinks to himself. With the last of their valuables in the car, Will slams the trunk shut.

Hannibal watches him carefully. Will had come home hours after he had left. He never took that long with a kill. But he understands why he might with this one. “Are you alright, Will?”

The other man regards him for a second. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. They have everything planned. The flight is in a couple of hours, so they need to leave soon. They have all of the documents they need – faked passports with new identities and lives.

Hannibal strides over to Will. The passenger side’s door is open. Inside, he spots Emilia flicking through one of her books, mouthing words to herself. Hannibal reaches for Will’s hand, cupping it with his own, tracing patterns on to his palm with his thumb. “Is something bothering you?”

Will looks at their joined hands. He shakes his head. “No, no I’m fine. Really.” When Will looks up, it’s to a frowning Hannibal. Will brings his free hand up to run his fingers along Hannibal’s jaw. His skin is warm from the scarf covering his neck. A chilling winter breeze floats through their stretch of road. Will drags his nails along Hannibal’s skin. “I’m fine. I promise,” he assures the other man.

 

* * *

 

 

They settle in Baracoa in Cuba. The city itself isn’t what Will expected. Over the last couple of years, he’s lived in big cities – capitols, mostly – in townhouses on busy streets. While it never brought any unwanted attention to them, he did feel like he had to look over his shoulder every now and again. But Baracoa’s city is small. It’s more of a town. Most of the people here live in colourful buildings that line the streets.

Their home is a two-story villa hidden in the hills. Will watches the scenery change as Hannibal continues to drive. The cobblestone streets of the town gently turn into dirt tracks leading up and around the hills surrounding the town. Trees and forestry take the place of the colourful buildings. The dirt road jostles the car slightly as they continue their drive. Will looks over his shoulder to the back of the car. A slight smile tugs at his lips when he sees Emilia still sleeping.

When they get to the villa, Will’s surprised to see that it’s nothing _too_ extravagant. Hannibal tries not to roll his eyes. “I can go without commodities, Will.”

“Sure,” Will smiles, stepping out of the car to take a better look at the villa. It’s more than big enough for the three of them. The walls are stone, plain and whitewashed, with long lancet windows. The sun reflecting off of the walls seems to make the walls glow and glisten.

He hears Hannibal opening the car behind him, gently waking Emilia up. Whenever they get to a new house, he takes a moment to _look_ at it for a minute. He’s lost in thought for a moment before he feels Hannibal standing by his side. Emilia is in his arms, sleeping peacefully with her head pillowed on his shoulder. Even approaching eight years old, she still likes to be held close to them both.

Hannibal complains that it’s going to put his back out one day. Will thinks he wouldn’t have that problem if he didn’t keep indulging her to be in his arms every time she asks. Still, looking at them both now, he can’t admonish him for it.

A smile curls along his lips. “You should wake her up,” he says, reaching out to rub Emilia’s back, “she won’t sleep through the night.”

Hannibal hums, bouncing her slightly. “It was a long journey here,” he replies, “she can afford a nap.”

Will looks at him, eyebrow raised.

“Can you take the bags into the house?” Hannibal asks, ignoring the look from Will. “I’ll put her in her room upstairs.”

Will had a feeling that the house would be bigger on the inside, and he was right. It was probably the clean white walls and large bay-windows, but the interior looked like it sprawled on for metres. He brings the bags into the living room and takes a look around. Wandering slowly from the living room into the kitchen, he takes in everything.  

Hannibal is moving around upstairs. He can hear the other man’s shoes walking along the floorboards of upstairs. Emilia might sleep for another hour or two, at most, Will thinks. Then he has to wake her up or she’ll be awake all night.

He runs his fingers along the cool surface of the marble countertop. It’s white, like the other accents of the house, but flecked with grey, monochrome stones. The kitchens of every house they’ve lived in have always been the one thing meticulously designed and prepped. Hannibal wouldn’t have it any other way.

He doesn’t hear the other man step into the kitchen; only noticing Hannibal is even there when he has the other man slipping his arms around Will’s middle, pulling him gently back against his chest. Will goes with the movement easily.

“What do you think?” Hannibal runs his nose along the exposed length of Will’s neck.

Will sighs, his eyes fluttering closed. “I like it. It’s nice.” He doesn’t think to ask about how long they’ll stay in this house. Or when should they start planning on moving to the next one. They stopped doing that years ago when Emilia became a permanent fixture in their lives. Suddenly they couldn’t afford to move around as often as they had.

She deserved a home.

Hannibal drags his lips along Will’s neck, peppering kisses along the skin there, occasionally nipping. “Emilia is sleeping peacefully upstairs. She barely fluttered an eyelid when I put her down.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Will’s lip. He can feel a similar one forming on Hannibal’s. “Hmm.” He pushes himself gently back against Hannibal, moving his hips back against Hannibal’s crotch. A breath leaves him with a sigh.

“Our room is at the other end of the hallway,” Hannibal says, moving one hand under Will’s shirt, splaying his fingers across the skin he finds. The other skins downwards, toying with the top of his shorts. “And it _is_ a big house. Thick walls. Difficult to hear things.”

Will turns his head and catches Hannibal’s lips. “What? No more quick muffled romps in the middle of the night?”

Hannibal kisses him again. It’s slow and deep, one that makes Will’s toes curl. He’s turned in Hannibal’s arms and suddenly pulled up off of the ground into Hannibal’s arms.

He wraps his arms around the man’s neck, toying with the growing hair at the back of Hannibal’s head. “Show me our bed,” Will whispers, leaning down to take Hannibal’s lips with his again.

Their room is sparsely furnished, like the rest of the house, making it look bigger than it actually is. The bay window is opened, and warm soft breezes caress the light, white linen curtains, making them sway gently. Hannibal puts Will on the centre of their bed. It’s so comfortable and plus that Will feels like if he releases his hold around Hannibal’s neck, he’ll sink into the sheets and mattress. He brings Hannibal down with him until the other man is a gentle, but firm, pressure over his body.

He frames Hannibal’s face with his faces, holding him still for a moment. “I love you,” the words escape in a soft whisper.

Hannibal smiles softly. “I love you too.” He leans down and kisses Will, letting his hands wander down to start unbuttoning and pulling off clothes. Shirts, pants, socks, underwear all get flung into some part of the room, leaving them bare against the soft cotton sheets. Hannibal’s skin looks golden against the sunlight spilling into the room. His skin, like Will’s, is marred by white lines. Some are more faint than others. Some are better healed than others. His fingers stop over the one on Hannibal’s abdomen. The one the Dragon gave him. It’s a small line of ridged skin, not entirely healed into his body yet.

Hannibal rests his forehead against Will’s. “You are one of the most precious things in this world to me,” he mumbles, rubbing his nose with Will’s in a mock-kiss. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect and keep you both.”

Something warm blooms in Will’s chest. “I know,” he whispers, reaching up with his fingers to run the tips of them along the other man’s lips. He leans up and kisses Hannibal deeply, curling his tongue around Hannibal’s when the other man opens up to him. They move against each other, washed in warm light and air that spill in through the open window at the other side of the room.

When their cocks rub against each other, Will gasps into Hannibal’s mouth. “Harder.”

They continue to move against each other, edging closer and closer to a proverbial cliff edge. Hannibal reaches and cards his fingers through Will’s lengthening curls, tugging them gently. It wrings a choked gasp out of the other man. Will lets his hands run down Hannibal’s back.

The coiling feeling in the pit of his stomach tightens, wrapping tighter and tighter around itself until all he sees is bright white light. He choked out something resembling Hannibal’s name, and comes down from the high.

Hannibal follows him over. Grinding harshly into Will’s groin on last time before stilling, then slumping into the other man’s body.

Will runs his fingers through Hannibal’s hair. “Get some sleep,” he orders the other man blearily. His eyelids feel too heavy to keep open. Hannibal lies down beside him, only moving slightly to grab a light thin sheet and wrap the two of them in it. It’s still too warm out for the sheets of the bed. With the window still open, the salty wind of the sea keeps washing into the room. Will hums happily. “Sleep,” he pats Hannibal’s arm.

He feels the other man nuzzle his nose into Will’s neck and hum against the skin there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so fucking bad at writing sex, you have no idea. 
> 
> I mean, I guess you do now. You just read whatever that was. Sorry.


	8. Baracoa, Cuba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a life established in Cuba, a slightly grown-up Emilia goes about her chores by herself. 
> 
> How much trouble could a 12-year-old get in?

The house is silent when Emilia wakes up. There’s the occasional tapping sound – dog claws against the wood panel flooring outside – but the house is more or less silent. She rubs at her eyes, chasing the last moments of sleep away, and sits up in her bed.

She sees the sun outside her window, peering over the top of the nearest hill, soft morning light slowly starting to travel down the hills and forests towards their home. The days start quickly. Before sleep can pull at her again, she throws back her sheets and swings her legs out of bed. Resting her bare feet on the cool flooring of her room, she looks around. _Supply run_ , she states simply in her mind. Dad mentioned something about it last night.

She pulls on her worn-converse shoes (the ones that her Papa hates), tying them loosely and tucking the laces in. Grabbing a light jacket, she looks around her room. It’s a mess. Papa despises it and is constantly asking her to clean it up. (“Pre-Teen tendencies, Hannibal. Messy rooms happen”).

Shrugging her jacket on, she walks to her door and opens it. A scruffy-looking dog with dark colouring meets her with a wagging tail and panting mouth. “Good morning, Dante,” she smiles at the mutt and peers forward, looking up and down the hallway. It’s just as dark and quiet as the rest of the house. She steps out into the hallway and gently closes her bedroom door closed. It closes with a muffled _click_.

Dante whines at her side. She gives the dog a harrowing look. “Don’t wake them up, Danny. You know Papa has the hearing of a bat.”

She slowly stalks down the hallway and towards her parents’ room. Their door is slightly ajar. She catches the handle and gently pushes it open slightly. Looking inside, she sees them sleeping peacefully. A dog’s head rises from the space between them. _Papa’s going to kill you, Cato_ , she admonished the dog in her mind. The dog sighs heavily and puts his head back down. She closes the door quietly behind her.

Dante follows her downstairs, sniffing at the ground and walking over to the back door. She sighs. “I’ll let you out when I get back, Danny. Or else Dad can when he wakes up.”

Dante whines and scratches the door. She shoots him a harrowing look before he slinks off into another part of the house.

She finds a piece of paper is on the marble countertop. Two messages are on the piece of paper – both in her fathers’ different scripts. In the more eloquent, and frankly harder to read, one, is what her Papa needs for the week. There are instructions just to go to the butcher in town and pick up a selection of cuts – beef, pork, and veal.

Just below that message is one from her dad.

_Come straight home when you’re done._

The supposed finality of the message makes her laugh. Every morning for the past couple of years here, this has been her job: getting up before them and completing some trips into town. She goes the same way – something her dad admonished her for, but doesn’t really know why – and always gets back as they’re getting up or making breakfast.

She folds the piece of paper and stuffs it into her jacket pocket. Dante is suddenly beside her, watching silently, eyes suddenly sad. “I’ll be an hour at most, Danny,” she tells the dog. Crouching down in front of him, she rubs at his scruffy face. “You need to stay here with Cato and look after Papa and Dad.”

The dog whines. Usually, he would come with her. On the rare occasion that her Dad might be awake at this time, he would offer to come with her. Since she doesn’t like him coming into town with her anymore (“Pre-Teenage tendencies, William. She needs her space.”), he always makes her take a dog with her. Just in case.

Sometimes, like today, she goes by herself. She gives the dog’s head one last pat and stands up. “Stay,” she says firmly. “I’ll be home soon.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Good morning, _princesa_!” a booming voice greets her as she steps into the first store on the list. “What can I get you today?”

Emilia smiles and walks over to the glass counter. Juan Espinosa has been Papa’s butcher of choice for the few years that they’ve been leaving here. He’s a nice man, Emilia knows, and often tries whittling down the price of groceries without her knowing. When she was younger, he always gave her back too much change. It was something she didn’t notice until her Dad spotted it. Emilia and Juan have a secret now – they both tell her parents that she gives him the right amount of money, but really, he still gives her back too much change. She keeps it. Locked away in a jewellery box underneath her bed are a number of bills and coins she’s collected over the years. She has no need for it. Both of her parents provide her with whatever she might need or want. But it’s nice to have something to herself.

She hands the piece of paper over to Juan. “Just these, please.”

Juan’s older than her Papa – his face is wrinkled, but not in a bad way, with greying hair that is slowly receding at the top of his head. He regards the piece of paper for a moment before nodding firmly. “This shouldn’t be a problem!” he says, a brilliant white smile overtaking half of his face. He waves his hand at a vacant chair and table at the side of the store. “Sit down _, princesa_ , I won’t be a minute.”

“ _Gracias_.” She takes a seat and looks around the store. Juan is a butcher, and over half of the shop is taken up with cuts of beef, pork, veal, and everything in between. There’s an entire glass container full of fish that the harbour brings in. On the other part of the store is what belongs to Juan’s wife, Maria. Selections of cheeses, freshly baked bread and pastries, and a collection of coloured jars and containers. Emilia remembers being taken here by her Dad within the first few weeks of them living here. While her dad and Juan spoke of cuts of meat and fish, Maria always sneakily handed her a pastry.

The woman is behind the counter, putting the last of the produce on display. She brightens up when she spots Emilia. “Oh! _Querido!_ Juan didn’t say that you were here!”

She walks over to the table Emilia is at, wiping flour from her hands with her apron. “I’ll only be a couple of minutes,” Emilia replies, “I have other jobs to do today.”

“Of course, of course!  Here!” she turns back around to the counter and picks up a couple of _pastelitos de guayaba_ pastries. “Take a few of these with you. I know that you and your dad like them.”

Emilia fishes out a couple of pesos and hands them to Maria. When the woman tries to shove them away, Emilia shakes her head. “Please, take it.”

Maria settles her with a stern look before sighing. “Thank you, _Querido_. You’re very kind.” She takes the money and stashes it away in the till. The pastries are put into a small paper bag and handed to Emilia. As soon as the girl takes the bag, Maria frames Emilia’s face and presses a kiss to her forehead. The woman starts muttering _something_ under her breath in quick Spanish.

Juan appears from a small doorway leading out to the back. He hands her the bag of meat cuts. “This should be everything he was looking for,” he says. He keeps a hand on the bottom of the plastic bag and arches an eyebrow at Emilia. “Are you walking home, _princesa_? That’s a heavy load to take by yourself.”

Emilia nods, but gathers the bag safely up into the crook of her arm. “I’m walking, but its fine. I’ve got it.”

Juan doesn’t look convinced, but he shrugs. “If your Pops needs anything else, just come back here and I’ll sort it out.”

“ _Gracias se_ _ñor y se_ _ñora Espinosa_.” When everything paid for and gathered Emilia steps out of the store and on to the street outside. A couple of sailors are walking towards the beach – a line of boats anchored offshore bob gently with the soft tide. Emilia looks at it for a moment. She should ask her Dad to teach her how to sail.

She remembers him saying that he knew how to. But she’s never seen him sail. She’s never been on a boat. He always took her fishing when they lived near rivers, and he promised once to take her out on the ocean and teach her to fish there. But he never did.

Shrugging from the memory, she walks back up along the street. Baracoa is the nicest place they’ve lived in. The other cities and villages had their own charms, in a sense, but she likes Baracoa more. It’s the buildings, she realised one day. When it’s sunny, the light makes the coloured buildings even brighter. Even when it rains or the sky is heavy with dark grey clouds, the buildings always make her happy.

Her other chores are to gather some medicine from Señora Martinez a couple of streets away. Dad has a dry, chesty cough that he can’t seem to get rid of: no matter how much tea or salves Papa every gives him. Senora Martinez helps her, and like the Espinoza’s, she shakes her head when Emilia tries to give her money. “I’ll pray for your dad to get better,” she smiles, handing over a couple of bottles of thick cough syrup. “Stubborn things, coughs. Some of them won’t budge no matter what you do.”

With everything gathered, she makes her way home. It’s a twenty-minute walk back to their villa in the hills – thirty if it’s a nice day (which it is) and she takes her time (which she does). The scrawled script of her dad’s writing flashes in her mind. _Come straight home when you’re done_. And she is. She is coming _straight home_. She’s just taking her time.

The edge of the town meets the corner of the hill that she needs to walk up. It’s a gradual incline, only really hurting the leg muscles when you’re wherever you need to be. She jostles the groceries in her arms and starts her trip home.

A low growl of an engine makes her ears prick.

Looking over her shoulder, she sees a car slowly pulling up. The passenger-side window rolls down and it’s enough for her to look into the car. She’s met with a man’s scowling face. ”Hey kid,” he calls out to her, “do you need any help?”

She looks at the car: black Audi, tinted windows, sleek design. It’s too modern and clean for anything around here. “ _No, gracias_ ,” she says, “I need to get home.” She’s careful to mask her accent.

The driver regards her for a minute. “Where are you from, kid?”

“ _Aqu_ _í_.”

He’s wearing sunglasses, she realises. She’s always been able to read people’s eyes. Her Papa showed her how to. He lowers them down along the bridge of his nose. Dark unreadable eyes peer out over the rims of the glasses and stare right at her. “Originally, I mean. Because it’s obvious you’re not from here.”

“Neither are you,” she retorts. He’s dressed too nice. Papa and dad dress nice, but their clothes fit in with everyone in the town. This man dresses like a tourist _trying_ to fit in. She makes a scene of jostling the groceries in her arms. “I need to get home now. _Adi_ _ós_.”

She turns on her heels and starts her walk through the hill. With a couple of metres walked, she looks over her shoulder. The car still sits at the bottom of the hill. The man is peering out the window at her, watching her walk. She manages to free an arm for a minute and takes the opportunity to flip the guy off. “ _Vete a la mierda_!” she shouts down the hill. At that, the man sits back into his car and rolls up the windows.

 

* * *

 

 

Dante and Cato spring from the villa’s porch as she walks into view. Galloping madly towards her, they greet her with writing bodies, wagging tails, and slobbering mouths. They run around her legs, almost tripping her over.

“Move mongrels,” she grumbles, kicking out a foot to move them from her path. A smile does tug at the corner of her lip as the dogs stay obediently by her side walking into the house, though. The windows are now open, with fresh morning air wafting into the house. She smells toast and bacon, and her stomach quivers with hunger. “No wonder you’re both so excited,” she says down to the dogs. They both bark.

Dad is in the kitchen, moving slices of bacon from the pan on to a plate. A small stack of toast is already on the plate, lightly browned and buttered. He always has breakfast waiting for her when she gets back.

Placing the bags on the marble table, she almost winces as her dad turns his head to the side and hacks a cough.

“Mrs Martinez said she’d pray for you,” she tells him, rifling through the bag and fishing out a bottle of cough syrup. Handing it over to her Dad, she fixes him with a serious face. “I should have told her that praying for the devil is kind of pointless.”

“Wow, what a budding comedian we have,” he quips in a monotone voice, taking a look at the bottle. He hums thoughtfully and goes in search of a spoon. Papa steps into the kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He spots the bags and then looks over to Emilia.

“Did you have any trouble?” he asks, reaching for the plastics ones from the Espinosa’s store.

Emilia drags the plate of toast and bacon over to her and stabs at it with a fork. “Nope. Juan said he had everything you needed.” Picking up a slice of bacon, she regards it for a second, before stuffing it into her mouth.

She isn’t stupid. She knows what her parents did. What they still do. This bacon came from the Espinosa store – thick strips of back-bacon with a line of fat running around the side of it. She hasn’t eaten any of her Papa’s food. There was a close moment, though. She was nine, and it was kept in the back of the fridge. In fairness, it _was_ rolled up and cured like pepperoni. Dad had almost slapped it out of her hand when she picked it up. She always had an inkling up until that point, but she knew for a fact since then.

Hannibal nods as he finishes looking through the bag. “Very good,” he says, picking them up to start putting the cuts of meat away. “Did you have any other trouble?”

Will watches her from the side of the kitchen, pouring out a spoonful of medicine. Emilia almost retches at the colour of it.  

She shakes her head. “Nope.”

Will takes a spoonful of the liquid and puts the bottle away in a cabinet. “You didn’t take a dog with you,” he says simply. Turning around to her, he’s shooting her a raised eyebrow. “You always have to bring a dog with you.”

“I didn’t need them.”

“What if you did?”

“Have you _seen_ our dogs? What person is going to be scared of those two?” She points her fork over to Cato and Dante – both rolling around with each other on the rug in the living room. Emilia likes to think that their tails haven’t stopped wagging since Dad brought them home. Even as matted strays on the streets, they were happy dogs. They stop their fighting when all three of their owners look their way. They look at each of them with wagging tails and tongues hanging to the sides of their mouths.

Hannibal laughs softly from the other side of the kitchen.

“Still,” Will admonishes, “you should have brought one of them.”

Emilia looks down at her breakfast. “I was fine.”

She doesn’t tell them about the man. She knows she should. That’s one of the rules: tell them everything. She can almost hear her Papa’s lecture to her about it in her mind: _no matter how small you might think it is, Emilia, it could be very important._

She’ll tell them, eventually.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning is the same. She grabs her jacket and closes her bedroom door. With tentative steps, she checks on her parents. They’re still asleep. Cato isn’t between them today, though. He’s resting peacefully at the foot of the bed, while her parents are wrapped tightly around each other. Cato is curled up in a ball between their tangled legs.

She takes Dante with her today. He obediently trots by her side as they visit the Espinosa’s store. When Emilia orders him to stay outside, Maria waves her hands. “Nonsense! Bring him in! I think we have a few scraps of beef here somewhere.”

He gets a hock bone off of the Espinosa’s – tightly wrapped in newspaper and in a bag by Emilia’s side. He keeps poking it with his nose as they walk to other stores. Emilia keeps swatting him away. “You can have it when you get home.”

Mrs Martinez asks about her Dad. “He’s better now, thank you _Se_ _ñora_ ,” she smiles at the older woman. She continues to talk to her about the importance of prayer while Emilia picks up a couple of bandages and antiseptic wipes. Their first aid box at home looked a bit light the last time she checked. It wouldn’t hurt to replenish some of it. When the older woman hands Emilia her change back, Dante gives a sharp bark outside. “Thank you, _Senora_.”

Dante barks again when Emilia steps outside the store and into the street. “What?” She pockets her money into her jacket and looks at the dog.

Someone clears their throat. She looks up at locks eyes with the man she saw yesterday. Schooling her face into a neutral expression, she juggles with her bags. Dante barks at the man. “Hush,” she snaps. The dog moves closer to her legs, perked ears flat back against his skull.

The man has his hands held up slightly. “I’m sorry, it’s my fault. I tried petting him, that’s all.”

“You must be a really bad person then. He lets everyone pet him.” She regards the man for a moment. “Dante was the friendliest stray the town had.”

“Had?” she sees the man’s eyebrows raise over the rim of his sunglasses.

“I adopted him,” she answers easily. There’s a rumbling growl from the dog at her side. She tightens the hold she has on her bags. “I need to go now.”

Without another word, she brushes past the man. She expects her arm to be grabbed, or for the man to at least call after her, and her body tenses as she strides forward. Whistling over her shoulder, Dante bounds forward and trots by her side.

She takes a different way home.

 

* * *

 

 

“Can I ask you a question?”

The question almost has Will dropping his fork to his empty plate. He slowly raises his gaze to his daughter at the other side of the table. Papa has stepped into the kitchen for a minute, gathering the last dish of the night. Their dessert is stewed fruits and cream, with praline brittle over the top. Emilia watched her Papa make it. She likes watching him work. There’s something calming about it.

She drums her fingers over the table – a habit she’s had since childhood, and one that Papa never quite got out of her. “I went into town this morning,” she explains slowly, “I took Dante with me.”

Will nods approvingly.

“There....” she frowns. The words are there. They won’t come out. What is she even going to say? _There’s a weird man in town that I keep running into_.

Her fingers suddenly stop tapping as her hand is covered by her Dad’s. He has reached over the table to hold her hand. “Hey, you can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

She nods. “Just...there’s this guy in town, I’ve never seen him before, and...”

She feels her Dad’s hand tighten on hers. “Don’t freak out about it, but I don’t know who he is, and I keep running into him and-”

“-Has he spoken to you?” Hannibal’s voice appears in the room. Emilia’s head snaps over to the door to the kitchen. He calmly walks into the dining room, putting crystal martini glasses on small plates in front of both Emilia and Will. Inside are clear layers of cream and fruit, with amber praline crumpled on top.

Emilia takes her hand from Will’s and drops them to her lap. “Yeah, only a few times though.”

Hannibal shoots a look over to Will. They seem to have an entire conversation through their eyes.

“Don’t fret about anything, _dovana_.” Hannibal presses a kiss to the top of Emilia’s head. He then gestures to the dessert in front of her. “Now, _bon appétit_.”

 

* * *

 

 

She brings Dante with her into town for the next couple of days. Her dad offers to come with her, but she keeps turning him down. Will does watch her leave, though. He’s started waking up earlier in the morning, and as she walks down the dirt pathway of their villa, he watches her go from the porch.

Dante keeps by her side as they visit different stores. Some of the vendors let him in with Emilia, sneakily feeding him bits of scraps that they might have. They used to do that when he was a stray, and Emilia thinks they feed him even more now that he’s with her. She ends up leaving town with a couple of plastic bags – some filled with fresh minced beef and long cuts of tenderloin. Maria gave her a couple of blocks of cheese and some pastries for the trip back. Dante keeps poking the bags with his nose.

She spots the man standing a couple of streets away. She tilts her head. He’s just...standing there. Dante’s ears flatten back against his head. She catches his collar and tugs him to another street. “Come on,” she orders the dog. His ears perk up at the command, and he falls to her side.

 

* * *

 

 

“-black guy, about six-foot tall, well built,” she lists. Both her Papa and Dad sit in front of the fireplace. The nights are always chilly, but as the summer is slowly turning into autumn, the night winds have more of a bite to them. She tugs her cardigan tighter around herself as she stands by the fire.

Will looks over to Hannibal, settling the other man with one of their _looks_. She folds her arms. “What?”

“Nothing,” Will replies while still looking at Hannibal. The other man simply takes another sip of his tea and goes back to looking at the flames of the fire. When Will looks at her, his expression is schooled into something neutral. “Don’t worry about it.”

She looks between her parents. “You can tell me anything, you know?”

Will huffs a laugh against his first. The light from the flames highlights the small smile in the corner of his lips. “We know.”

Realising that she won’t get any more information out of them, she steps away from the fireplace and crosses over to them. “Right. Well, I’m going to bed,” she says simply, leaning down to kiss both of their foreheads. They bid her goodnight, and she slinks up the stairs to her room. Dante follows her.

 

* * *

 

 

She tries to take a different way to the stores. The town is small, though. There are only so many ways she can take into town. Some days she takes her usual way, others she wanders down to the beach and walks up the strand. Dante trots close by her side.

Maria Espinosa meets Emilia outside her store. She sweeps the last of the dust from the pavement out on to the road. She smiles brightly at the girl as she approaches the storefront.

“ _Querido! Buenas mañanas_!”

“ _Buenas ma_ _ñanas Se_ _ñora_ ,” Emilia smiles. Dante barks a greeting. Emilia drops her hand to her side, grazing the top of Dante’s fluffy head to pet the dog. “Is Juan in today?”

Maria sets aside her broom and dusts her hands off of her apron. “He’s visiting someone at the moment, _princesa_ , I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s alright,” Emilia shrugs. She stuffs her hands into her pockets. “Papa just wanted to know about some offal.”

“Oh! I’m sure whatever he would have done with it would have been lovely. We can get it for you, no problem! When Juan comes back, I’ll be sure to mention it to him.”

“Thank you, _Se_ _ñora_.”

Dante suddenly barks. Looking down at the dog, Emilia sees him staring down the street, softly growling. Following his gaze, she looks up and sees the man.

Maria must do the same thing. “He’s been around for a while. _Lo has visto?_ ”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him,” Emilia answers. She watches the man for a minute. He’s sitting at a table in front one of the small cafes in the town. Idly flicking through a newspaper, he looks up every so often to watch the people walking past him. It’s been a couple of days since Emilia first encountered him. Now with her fathers knowing about his presence, maybe he’ll stop.

 _Or_... her mind prompts. Emilia turns back to Maria and gives her a warm smile. “I’ll come back tomorrow, _Se_ _ñora_. Tell Juan I said hello.” She clicks her fingers at Dante and he heels, keeping to her legs as they both walk down the street, in the opposite direction of the cafe. Maria waves them off.

When she gets to the street corner, she takes the turn to the right and starts jogging up the street. Dante breaks out into a canter to keep up. She gets to the next corner and turns it, almost doubling back up the original street. She knows every alleyway in this town, and knows how long to keep striding along one and when to break off from it. Weaving through a couple of more streets, she’s at the top of the strip of road leading to the cafes.

The man is still seated at his table, done with his newspaper and quietly sipping a small espresso. Emilia starts striding quickly down the street, crossing to the other side quickly. Dante is on her heels. A few people passing her greet her good morning and continue to haul their produce into their stores.

When she gets to the cafe, the man reaches for his hat and starts to stand up. She’s in front of him within seconds.

“Who are you?” Emilia’s voice is solid and firm as she folds her arms over her chest. Dante starts to growl lowly by her side.

The man looks between the two of them. He lets go of his hat and takes off his sunglasses, pocketing them in his shirt. He gestures to the free seat opposite him. Emilia looks at it and then back to him. He holds up his hands. “Okay. Okay.”

“Have you been following me?”

“It’s a small town,” he shrugs, “I’ve run into the same people every day I’ve been here.”

Dante lets out a gruff bark. Emilia shoots him a look. “Whatever it is you want isn’t here. So get out.”

The man raises his eyebrow at her. “I wasn’t aware you were the mayor.”

“No. This is my _home_. And you’re not welcome in it.”

The man laughs under his breath. “ _Jesus_ ,” he breathes. “You’re a piece of work, kid. Do your parents approve of that attitude?”

She’s silent for a minute. “Father hates it.”

That gets a boisterous laugh out of him. “That’s the way it is for most fathers and their preteen girls, I’m afraid.”

In the back of her mind, there’s a story she should follow. When she was younger, before she really had a firm grasp on what it was that her parents really did, Papa told her a story to refer to if she was ever caught. She thought it was a lie, and it was, but she didn’t know that lying could be incredibly useful.

She stands up a bit straighter. “You didn’t answer my questions.”

The man sits back in his chair with a heavy sigh. The hair around his head – or what’s left of it – is bright grey. It’s striking against the darkness of his skin. Without his sunglasses, she can see deep wrinkles in the corners and underneath his eyes. He looks around the same age as Papa, but age hasn’t been kind to this man.

“What questions do you have for me?”

She glances down to her growling dog. Dante catches her eye and stops growling.

“Who are you?”

He huffs a laugh. “Starting with an easy one, then. Good.”

The man leans forward, sighing again with the apparent effort of it. He holds out a large hand towards her in greeting. “Jack. Jack Crawford."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp.
> 
> Headcanon breeds:  
>  \- Dante: Malinois  
>  \- Cato: Havanese Dog
> 
> Tumblr: yourqueenforayear.tumblr.com. Come by for a chat, or to see my eventual descent into madness. 
> 
> Comments & Kudos welcomed!


	9. Baracoa, Cuba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emilia speaks with Jack. 
> 
> Hannibal makes a promise to Will.

She can practically _hear_ her fathers’ shouting in her ear already.

It doesn’t stop her from taking the seat opposite the man, though. Dante obediently takes a seat by her feet. The look that Dante is giving the man is positively _murderous_. The dog, a fully-grown and frankly _fat_ Malinois, isn’t aggressive in the slightest. Emilia has never known him to bite anything or anyone. But where Emilia is concerned, he could rip a man’s hand off.

If this _Jack_ isn’t careful, it’ll be his hand, Emilia thinks to herself. She sits slightly slouched in the metal chair, arms folded tightly over her chest. She taps the leg of the table with the toe of her foot. She wants to know why the man is here. But she doesn’t want to speak to him. Everything in her mind screams at her to stand up and _leave_.

But here she still sits.

The man orders her a glass of Coke with ice. Emilia arches an eyebrow.

 “Is that okay?” he asks, looking between the waitress and her.

She shrugs. The waitress – Sofia – knows her. Everyone in the town knows her. She raises a pencilled eyebrow at Emilia. She responds with a reaffirming nod. If the guy was going to cause trouble, she’d scream. Most of the town would rush into the small front-area of the cafe just to protect her. Sofia disappears into the cafe.

The man sighs. “So, you know my name. Do I get to know yours?”

“No.” The finality of Emilia’s voice almost scares her. Something of her Dad’s seeps through. Instead of saying anything else, she settles with sending the man a harrowing look.

Jack holds up his hands. “Okay. Okay.” Sofia returns with another espresso for him and a glass of Coke with ice for Emilia.

“Anything else?” The question is directed at both of them, but she’s looking primarily at Emilia.

She shakes her head. “ _Estamos bien, gracias_.”

Sofia nods simply and retreats back into the cafe’s interior. Left alone with the man again, she’s torn between interrogating him with questions and silently watching him. Dante rests his chin on the top of Emilia’s knee. She reaches out with one hand to pat him gently on the head.

“So, what other questions do you have for me?” the man – _Jack_ , she reminds herself – asks.

She reaches out and takes a sip of her drink. The days are slowly getting colder as autumn settles over the town. The sun still hangs high in the sky, but the biting cold sea winds are even sharper now. She puts down her drink and shoves her hands into her jacket pockets.

In her right pocket, her fingers toy with a long sliver of folded polished metal. The penknife her Dad got her a number of years ago.

“Why are you here?” she asks. _Keep them simple_ , her mind supplies.

He gestures to the street. “Vacation,” he answers easily. She’s not impressed with the answer. He’s lying.

“Baracoa isn’t the first place people think of when they need a vacation,” she retorts. The town is small. Everyone here knows each other. True, sometimes, on the very rare occasion, a boat will pull into the beach and tourists might step off. But as soon as they arrive, they leave again. The quiet town doesn’t exactly scream _party-life_.

Jack nods. “Most people come to Cuba for Havana or Varadero, I take it?”

Emilia shrugs a shoulder. “I wouldn’t know. I live here.”

“For how long?” Jack asks. He sips at his espresso in between his questions. The man isn’t like anyone she’s seen before. There’s something about him that’s just _off_. She can’t put her finger on it. Dante seems to know, though. While resting peacefully against Emilia’s knee, he still has eyes trained on the man: waiting for him to make a move.

Emilia shrugs again. “A while.”

“A while? As in a couple of days, weeks, years?”

She doesn’t answer him. She isn’t stupid. What he’s trying to do is obvious. Dad taught her how to avoid questions when she was little. It was a plan that backfired on him pretty quickly as she started avoiding his own questions when she got a little older. She never did anything _bad_. But then again, Dad didn’t need to know about crushes on people she liked, or why she sometimes stayed out longer than usual.

The man sighs into his cup and he puts it back on its saucer. The town moves around them. A couple of people walking up along the street look into the cafe and greet her. She waves back. One man – Tulio – stops to chat to her for a moment. As soon as he stops to talk to her, he notices the stranger. Within a couple of minutes, Tulio says goodbye to her and starts walking quickly down the street.

Alone with the man again, she slouches against her chair. Fiddling with the ring on her pointer finger, she tilts her head.

“You’re from America, aren’t you?” she asks suddenly. She knows that he is. There’s no attempt at masking his accent.  It’s similar to her Dad’s, though the slight accent of it is wrong.

The man nods. “Baltimore,” he supplies. When Emilia frowns slightly, he clarifies. “It’s in Maryland.”

Emilia huffs. It means nothing to her. Once, when she was little, she asked to visit the US. It was when Papa and Dad were looking for a new place to live. That’s when Papa explained that the US would never be their home. She didn’t understand then. She does now. Even being in Cuba, being so close to the States, it’s risky. _People like Jack Crawford can just appear out of nowhere_ , her mind supplies.

They haven’t mentioned Baltimore to her. All she knows of her Dad is that he’s from Louisiana. It’s almost like a section of their lives is missing for her.

“Have you ever been to the States?”

She shakes her head. “Never had a reason to go.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Jack frowns slightly. “What about school? It doesn’t seem like there’s a school around here.”

“My parents homeschooled me.”

The man’s eyebrows rise. “Your parents homeschooled you?” he repeats. When she nods, he presses on. “They must be academic people, then.”

Emilia reaches for her drink. The ice has melted slightly. “You could say that,” she shrugs, taking a sip. She makes sure her words are careful.

“What are they doing out here?”

She watches the man from over the rim of her glass. Putting it back on the table, she shrugs her shoulder. “Vacation,” she answers tonelessly.

The corner of Jack’s mouth curves upwards. Everything Emilia needed to know was taught to her by her parents. Munich taught her maths and science in the academic sense. Everything else was taught to her by her fathers. Papa taught her biology, history, literature. Dad taught her practical skills: she can make lures and cast fishing lines without even thinking about it. She knows how to gut, scale, and fillet fish. She thinks that is why they stopped looking for schools: she already knows everything she needs to know.

She puts her hand into her jacket pocket and curls her fingers around her pocketknife.

“I’m here for a job,” Jack says after a while.

“What do you work as?”

The man pauses. “I’m a cop,” he says plainly. She narrows her eyes at him. He’s lying. Tilting her head slightly, she looks at his face. _No_ , she thinks, _he’s half-lying_. Whether that’s as bad as actually lying, she doesn’t know for certain.

Then something drops in her stomach. Her blood suddenly runs cold. _Get home_. The voice that appears in her head isn’t her own. It’s her Dad’s. Dante seems to sense her attitude shift as he moves his head from her knee and looks up at her. He whines, pushing his nose into her thigh. She swats him away.

“Thanks for the Coke,” Emilia states tonelessly, pushing herself up from the chair. The metal legs of the chair scrape against the cobblestone of the path. Sofia is behind the till inside. Her head shoots up at the sound of Emilia standing up. Her eyebrows almost climb high into her hairline as she watches Emilia gather her stuff. With her bags gathered, she looks back to Jack.

“I’m pretty sure I’ll see you again, so I guess there’s no point in saying bye,” she says. She wants him out of the town, but in the back of her mind, she knows that he won’t be leaving anytime soon. The town is too small. She’ll see him again.

Jack nods. “Still, it’s been nice talking to you.” He laughs. “It was one of the most pleasant interrogations I’ve ever had.”

Rolling her eyes, she turns on her heels and walks away from the cafe. She whistles over her shoulder. Dante quickly bounds to her side. She gets a few metres away before she turns the street corner, and breaks out into a jog.

 

* * *

 

 

Hannibal sketches peacefully in his office when he hears it: hurried footfalls thudding against the wooden floorboards of the hallway. The door to his office suddenly flings open, and Emilia slides in. As she closes it behind her, there’s too much force put behind it, and it slams shut.

He frowns slightly. “Emilia-”

“-I know, I know! ‘The slamming of doors is positively barbaric’”, she says in her best impersonation of his voice. She steps away from the door and strides into the room. Pushing strands of her hair away from her face, she huffs. “But I need to talk to you.”

He closes his sketchpad, keeping his pencil inside it to mark the page. Emilia paces around the room, looking everywhere but at him. Shelves stacked tightly with books line two of the office’s walls. Emilia has read most of them. One of the walls houses a small fireplace. Fresh ashes are at the bottom of it from the night before. While this is Hannibal’s space, Emilia likes coming in here some nights are reading. The night was cold, so she stoked a small fire for herself. She looks at the chaise she dragged over to the fireplace and sat in. The book she was reading is still resting on the small mahogany table beside the head of the chaise.  

She walks over and sits at the edge of the chaise. Her hands drop into her lap.  

“How was your trip into town?” he asks, walking around to the fireplace.

She starts to fidget again.

He regards her for a moment. “Emilia.” His voice is firm, but not threatening. Strands of her golden hair have fallen on to her face. Through the gaps between strands, he sees her ice-blue eyes glancing up at him.

“Promise not to get angry,” she says quietly. Her voice is so soft that he almost doesn’t hear her. In that moment, she looks like the meek, four-year-old girl that Will brought into their world all those years ago. Gone is the teenage girl that she’s growing into – none of the brashness and boldness that he’s slowly come to love about her.

He sits beside her on the chaise, careful to put a few inches of free space between them both. “What’s wrong?”

She reaches up and brushes her hair behind her ear. A tear slowly trickles down her face. “I spoke to the man today,” she says quietly. Her voice wobbles around the words.

He can’t stop the sigh that leaves his nose. “Emilia-”

“-I know you said not to speak to him, but I needed to know who he was because _I kept seeing him around_. It was freaking me out and I didn’t want to bother you or Dad with anything, so I did it myself, but-” The words suddenly rush out of her. He realises that she isn’t breathing around those words. Hannibal reaches out and takes her hands in his. Despite her growing up, she’s still slightly amazed that her hands look so small encompassed in his.

He rubs his thumbs over hers. “Listen to me, _dovana_ ,” he says firmly, “I need you to breathe for me. Do you remember the way I taught you?”

There’s an erratic movement of her head which sort of resembles a nod, before she straightens her back. With her hands still in his, she takes a wavering breath through her nose and blows it out of her mouth. “Slower,” he instructs. It takes a couple of minutes for her breathing to even out. Hannibal moves his index and middle finger down to her pulse-point, silently pressing the pads of those fingers against the skin there. He quietly watches her.

Her pulse is elevated, he notes. He stores information away from later, along with making a note to tell Will about the episode whenever he gets a free opportunity.

Satisfied that the episode has passed, he squeezes her hands. “Are you with me?”

She sniffs and nods. “Yeah, yeah it’s gone.” Her fingers feel cold against his. They twitch slightly. He continues to hold her hands in his. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, sweet girl, you don’t have to apologise to me for anything,” he says. He slides closer to her, letting one hand drop from hers to put his arm around her shoulders. There was a point in their lives where this was the norm. Horrific nightmares plagued her for most of her younger years. Why wouldn’t they? Her arrival into her new life wasn’t an easy one. It takes a couple of minutes for Emilia to completely calm down. When she does, she rests her head against Hannibal’s shoulder. Her body, now exhausted, sags against his side. _He smells like the sea_ , she thinks blearily. _He and Dad must have gone for a walk, then._

“He said he was a cop,” she says quietly. Hannibal moves slightly to rest his chin on the top of her head. He ponders their options for a moment. He knows exactly who’s here. Will knows too. They had been concocting a plan for the past couple of days.

They need to be careful about this. They’ve been careful with everyone they’ve killed. But they have to tread lightly with Jack.

“Don’t worry about a thing, _dovana_ ,” Hannibal says gently, combing his fingers through his daughter’s hair. “Your father and I will handle it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Will sits at the foot of their bed with his head in his hands. _Jack Crawford is here_. It’s the only thing that swirls around his mind. When Emilia described the man she had been seeing around the town, dread settled into his bones. _Maybe it’s someone else_. _It can’t be him. We were careful._

 _We were so fucking careful_.

The house is silent. Night rolled in without so much as a murmur, and almost at once, the house was swept asleep. Emilia had come into them to say goodnight, hugging them both tighter than usual. Will had seen the look in her eyes. Dante had followed her up to her room. The dog slept with her most nights now, and honestly, Will’s relieved. He looks to his side and spots Cato. The dog, sleeping peacefully at the foot of the bed, doesn’t even acknowledge Will as he reaches out to pet the dog’s fluffy head.

Hannibal steps out from their en-suite, drying his hair with a towel. Spotting Will, he drops the towel into a laundry hamper and wanders over to the man. “Emilia won’t be going into town again tomorrow,” he says simply. When he’s standing in front of Will, he reaches out – gently brushing his fingertips along Will’s jaw. “She’ll be staying where we can see her until we know exactly what to do.”

“She’ll hate that,” Will mumbles. With nowhere else to look, Will brings his hands up and covers Hannibal’s with them. “Hannibal...”

The other man rubs his thumbs lightly against Will’s cheeks. “Whatever we decide to do, I’m sure it will be beautiful.”

Turning his head slightly, Will brushes a kiss to Hannibal’s wrist. “Promise me that nothing will happen to her. I don’t give a shit what happens to you or me, but please, she needs to be okay.”

Without a word spoken, Hannibal kneels down in front of Will. Will spreads his legs to accommodate the movement. Staring right into Will’s eyes, he says slowly, “I promise you this, Will: if Jack Crawford sets foot in this house, or comes anywhere near her, the FBI won’t even be able to find what’s left of him.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dante snores. Dante snores _loudly_.

Emilia looks over at the dog. Limbs sprawled out in different directions, he takes up a lot of her bed. She doesn’t mind. She reaches out and lays her hand on the dog’s side. Her fingers almost disappear into the thick fur that’s there. The dog has been her keeper for almost two years. She remembers the day that he followed her Dad home: specifically, she remembers begging Papa to let him stay. He let Dante stay, stating firmly that the breed he was would serve as a useful guard dog.

For all the bad she has to say about the mongrel, she knows it’s true. He’s lazy, fat, slobbery, and snores like a bear, but he protects her with his life. She looks over to her bay-window. Its left closed for the night, but the billowy, white curtains haven’t been pulled. Outside, she sees it.

The moon is bright. Its white light blankets the hills around their house. The light catches the bright white paint of their home and lights it up: almost like a beacon. The beauty and serenity of it calms her. Ever since speaking to her Papa earlier, her hands keep shaking. Lying in bed, now, watching the night slowly roll in and settle, the shaking has become slight tremors.

There’s a soft knock on her door. Dante’s head suddenly springs up. His heavy tail thuds against her leg as Will steps in. He walks to the bed and reaches out, giving Dante a pet.

“Hey,” he says softly. Emilia sits up in the bed, pushing herself back to lean her back against the headboard. He wanders around to her side, taking a seat on the very edge of her bed. It reminds her of when she was younger. He would always come in and talk to her whenever she was having troubles. Whether it was after a nightmare or just a problem with school, he always sat with her and talked.

She brings her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. “Papa told you, then.” She puts her chin on the top of her knee. There’s no point in asking. Papa and Dad know everything. When she was younger, she thought that the two of them shared one mind. If one knew something, chances were that the other knew too.

She still thinks that.

Will is silent for a moment before he nods. “He was worried, that’s all. He told me you had another attack today.”

She looks down at her hands. “I don’t know what it was...I was okay, and then...”

“Suddenly you weren’t?”

“Everything in my brain told me to _run_ ,” she breathes, “to panic, to hide. It’s never been like that.”

Will sighs. “You’ve never had to feel like that before.”

There’s a silent moment between the two of them. Will breaks it after a few minutes. “I’m not trying to scare you, but I won’t lie to you either: the man that’s here...isn’t a good man. If he’s here for the reason Hannibal and I think, it’s not good.”

Emilia sniffs. “Will we have to move?”

“No, no,” Will shakes his head, “there’s no need. This is our home now.”

Emilia believes him. The only other place they spent this amount of time in was Munich, and that place had the potential to be their home.

“Your father and I will deal with it,” he says, echoing Hannibal’s words from earlier. When it looks like she won’t respond, Will goes to stand up from the bed.

“Can you tell me about him?” she asks suddenly. Will sits back down on the bed. At his puzzled look, she carries on. “He asked me some questions today: who I am, where I live, where am I from...I didn’t answer some of them, and anything I did say was useless information...but he didn’t tell me anything about himself.”

Will frowns. “Nothing?”

Emilia shrugs her shoulder. “Just that he was from Baltimore...wherever that is.”

That gets a slight laugh out of him. “Maryland,” he answers. “It’s...it’s where your Papa used to live. I used to work there, but I lived in a place called Wolf Trap. It was a small house about an hour away.”

She listens to him. All she knows of the US is that it’s off-limits. She knows about their lives before her – years of whittling away at their walls lets her peek into their past.

Will pauses for a moment. “What else did he tell you?”

She tries to remember their conversation from the cafe. “Just that he was a cop,” she says. “I knew he wasn’t telling the truth, though.”

Will tilts his head. “Oh?”

“Well,” she says, “he told a half-truth. The best lies are half-truths. It means that you don’t have to waste energy making up something new. With a half-truth, you have a good foundation to base a convincing lie off of.”

Will raises his eyebrow at her. “And who told you that?”

“Papa,” she shrugs.

“Of course he did,” Will smiles. It’s one of his real smiles, she notices: the one that reaches his eyes. Dante’s snores fill the room again. Will looks over to the dog and laughs. Patting the dog on the belly, he stands up from Emilia’s bed. “Listen to me,” he says, “don’t worry about Jack. We’ll handle it.”

Emilia lies back down, pulling her sheets up and around her. “’Night,” she says gently, aware of the quietness of the house. Dante lets out a grunt.

Will smiles at her from over his shoulder. “Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of fluff because what I have planned may not be. 
> 
> Comments & Kudos welcomed!


	10. Baracoa, Cuba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Jack Crawford Situation is starting to be dealt with.

Dante watches her pace around the house. She woke up at her usual time, and swiftly cursed at herself because there’s no reason to. Papa banned her from going into town. She understands why. She doesn’t feel comfortable going into town with Jack there. But still. Without anything to do or to take up her time, she paces.

She’s taken the same trip around the house: from her room, down the hallway and the stairs, into the kitchen and living room, and then back up the stairs. Repeat. And then repeat again.

Cato sighs heavily from his wicker-basket bed when she reappears in the living room.

Will sits in one of the armchairs in the living room. He’s lost count of the number of times she’s passed him. 

He eventually looks up from his book. “Stop that,” he says, “it’s distracting.”

She shoots him a glare over her shoulder. “I’m restless,” she bites, continuing her journey around the living room. Rolling his eyes, Will marks the page, puts the book on the coffee table in front of him, and stands up.

He catches her in the kitchen. Stepping in front of her path, she blows out a harsh sigh.

“If you’re looking for something to do, then the dogs need to be washed-”

“-Dad-”

“-And wood needs to be gathered for the fire-”

“- _Dad_ -”

“-And I’m pretty sure your room could do with a good clean.” He smiles when Emilia’s frown deepens. She folds her arms over her chest in a move that just screams _teenage_. It suddenly reminds him that she isn’t a little girl anymore. He pushes the thought away.

He hears Hannibal walking around upstairs. “You could help Hannibal with cleaning his office?”

Emilia arches her eyebrow at him. “I’d rather die.”

Will barks a laugh as she pushes past him and heads outside.

 

* * *

 

 

She settles with gathering wood. Dante joins her out in the woods – a large enough gathering of trees that have kept their house and land sheltered from prying eyes for years. A couple of new saplings have been planted closer to the house on Papa’s orders. Every tree that Dad hacks down, he makes sure that two more are planted. Emilia passes the newer saplings – barely able to stand up by themselves, and are wrapped tightly around a support beam. Dante sprints between the trees, zigzagging between them to follow the scents animals have left behind.

With the dog occupied, Emilia wanders over to a thin tree. It’s dead, she notices. Its bark is cracked and dry, falling off easily when she reaches out to touch it. Her grip tightens around the axe. _Good firewood_ , she thinks and looks for a good place to start cutting.

At the back of their house is a small hut. Inside is a giant pile of wood that, realistically, could last them a number of winters. But never leaving anything to chance, Will is always outside during the autumn, collecting wood and sticks. Only in the last couple of years has Emilia offered to help. Usually, she was in charge of carrying the wood from the forest and stacking it: neat piles leaning up against the walls of the brick hut.

She places the rim of the axe-head against the trunk of the tree, then reeling back for a swing.

 

* * *

 

 

Will watches her work from the kitchen window. It looks out on to the small backyard they have. The yard itself is legally theirs, as it belongs to the house, but the large stretch of woodland outside is practically theirs too. They don’t own it, but no one in the area ever goes into the woods or uses for anything. Emilia liked going into it when she was younger. Will always walked with her until they got Dante and Cato. Then the dogs often accompanied her on long wandering walks.

She cuts a couple of logs of wood before she seems to spot him watching her. Will flashes a small smile at her. She mirrors it before returning to the trees.

Will hears soft padding footsteps against the hardwood floor before he feels a warm body behind him. He puts his cup on the marble worktop in front of him and leans back. “We need to sort this out quickly, Hannibal.”

There’s a thoughtful hum from the man behind him. “Have you decided on what you’re going to do?” Hannibal’s voice is gentle, almost a purr, as his arms wrap around Will’s middle.

He’s given it some thought over the last few days. The nights following Emilia’s confession to them have been spent imagining the ways in which he would end Jack Crawford. Every night, his mind constructs something different: a different method of killing Jack, a different way of getting rid of, or presenting the body. Will places his hands over Hannibal’s, humming at how warm Hannibal’s skin feels against his. “I want you there with me,” he replies simply. That’s the one constant about his plan.

They stand there in silence for a moment. Hannibal rests his chin on Will’s shoulder. In a wordless reply, Will tilts his head to rest against Hannibal’s. Their fingers interlink in front of Will’s stomach.

There’s one thing that bothers him about the plan his mind has settled on. “What about Emilia?”

Hannibal moves his head slightly, so that his lips brush the fabric of Will’s shirt. “The dogs will provide her with protection.” Said dogs are outside with her, Will notices, sitting not far from where she is cutting trees. Dante sits, ears pricked and alert, watching her closely. Cato is only a few feet away, curled up on a pile of fallen leaves, but watching Emilia just as closely as the other dog.

Will hums. “Still...I don’t like the idea of us leaving her here during the night.” He doesn’t know how long they’ll spend hunting and eviscerating Jack, but something whispers to him to make it last as long as possible. It won’t be like their other kills – rushed, but still practised with enough beauty and dignity for it to be identified as one of theirs. He thinks back to Emilia’s teacher.

“Jack Crawford escaped death before,” Hannibal says suddenly, “on a number of occasions.”

A frown settles on Will’s brow. “He won’t escape this time.”

Outside, Emilia finishes cutting down some trees. Dividing the trunks into segments, she gathers the pieces of wood into her arms and starts carrying them to the hut. Dante quickly gets up and makes the journeys with her.

“Emilia likes this home,” Will says suddenly. It gets a raised eyebrow from Hannibal. “She likes Baracoa. I’ve never seen her so at home in a place before. I don’t want our hunt to disturb her happiness.”

Hannibal’s arms tighten around Will’s middle, holding him against the other man in a firm hug. “Don’t worry about that, my love.”

He runs his nose lightly along Will’s exposed neck, garnering a sharp gasp out of the other man. “When we’re finished with Jack Crawford, they won’t be able to find what’s left of him.”

 

* * *

 

 

The sun is setting when they leave.

Emilia pretends to read her book in the living room, curled up in an armchair in front of a roaring fire. She listened to them move around upstairs. Something heavily settled within her chest. She knows what they’re doing: what they’re about to do. They’ve kept it from her, but she knows.

There’s a gentle knock on the door.

“It’s open,” she calls out, keeping her eyes on the book pages in front of her. The door squeaks open and Will steps in. Something in the air is different. As they get closer to leaving, the air thickens and Emilia finds it harder to breathe. The words on the page in front of her are long forgotten. She’s been on the same page for almost half an hour. The only things disturbing the peaceful silence of the living room are the crackling of the fire and Dante’s snores from his bed across the room.

When Will reaches where she’s sitting, he drops down on to his haunches. “We’ll be home before you know it,” he quietly assures her. At that, she lifts her eyes from her book and meets Will’s gaze. He breaks it to look over to Dante peacefully sleeping. “You’ll have the dogs to protect you, should the worst happen.”

Emilia’s brow creases slightly. “But nothing will, right?”

Will shakes his head. “No, no, darling. You’ll be just fine here.” He shrugs his shoulder. “Besides, you always asked could you have the house to yourself.”

A laugh bubbles up through her throat. “This isn’t what I meant by that, you know.”

There’s a soft knock on the door. They both turn to see Hannibal standing at the doorframe, an emotionless expression masked across his face. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” Will nods firmly. Before he stands up to full height, he leans forward and presses a haste kiss against Emilia’s forehead. “You’ll be just fine,” he whispers to her before standing up. She hears some of his joints crack.

Hannibal says his own goodbyes to her, mirroring Will’s sentiment about them being home soon. She waves them off. Looking over to the dog bed on the other side of the room, she smiles faintly. “I’ll be fine. I got Danny.”

At his nickname being mentioned, the dog’s eyes suddenly flick open. Dante raises and cocks his head at her. Cato is somewhere in the house – in her fathers’ room, probably – but the little Havanese dog has as much spunk as Dante: despite being a quarter of his size.

But when her fathers’ leave, when she hears the front door shutting and the sounds of a car engine starting outside, she closes her book and leaps up from her chair. Dante is out of his bed just as quickly and follows her through the house.

Emilia bounds up the stairs and goes to her room. Even with the mess of clothes strung around the room, she quickly finds her jacket and pulls it on. Dante stands at the doorway, whining slightly. Her boots are at the foot of her bed. She pulls them on and laces them up quickly. Her hands shake slightly.

Dante crosses the room and presses his nose into her hands. He whines again.

“I’m alright, Danny,” she pets the dog on the head. She whistles sharply and within a few seconds, she hears claws patting against the floorboards of the hallway. Suddenly Cato’s head pops into view.

“Come on,” she says, standing up from her bed. The dogs follow her around the house, keeping to her heels. She wanders to her fathers’ room and rummages through a large, mahogany cabinet near the window. Moving some clothes aside, she finds what she’s looking for: a bundle that fits into her hand. She unwraps the cloth.

Her fathers’ have weapons hidden throughout the house. She never understood why when she was younger. But with every passing year, and as she slowly starts to learn what it was that they did – what they still do – she begins to understand.

She knows about this one. Papa showed her where to grab something if absolutely necessary.

The gun fits in her hand. Her fingers wrap around the grip. She looks down at the two dogs by her side – both of them watching her carefully with alert eyes and pricked ears.

“Let’s pay Jack a visit, boys.”

 

* * *

 

The _Hotel de Castillo_ is in the middle of Baracoa. It offers a look out on to either the hills and forests surrounding on side of the town or the beach and ocean on the other. It’s a small hotel, with only thirty or so rooms. Jack Crawford has holed himself away in one of them.

Three walls of his room remain blank: still, the muted daisy yellow that they’ve always been. One, though, is covered completely with black and white photos, worn-down newspaper clippings, and thick yarn piecing them all together.

He sits at the foot of his bed, elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him. As he flicks his eyes over each document pinned to the wall, he twists the plain wedding band around his finger. It’s a habit he’s had for a number of years, only manifesting itself when he’s thinking.

There are no extradition laws to the US. He’s on his own out here. And in the eyes of the law, he has no right to arrest them and bring them back to Baltimore. But in a corner of his mind, there’s a voice that has whispered to him throughout his hunt for them: he won’t be bringing them back to Baltimore, he won’t arrest them, and he’s not here on behalf of the law.

He’ll kill them.

Getting up from the bed, he winces at how stiff his joints are getting. Burning slightly as he stretches to full height, he strides slowly over to the wall. Their faces stare back at him through the photos. Most are blurry, and truthfully, he wondered if half of these photos are even of them. But he knows what they look like. Their faces are burned into his mind. Even if they were to drastically change how they looked, he feels like he could still recognise them.

So he looks at the photos and then to newspaper clippings. He follows lines of yarn that connect everything pinned on that wall.

From the cliff-face all those years ago to here, he’s followed them. The FBI wouldn’t have anything to do with the Ripper case anymore: or the fallout of it. When Will Graham pulled both himself and Hannibal off of that cliff, it gave the FBI a get-out-clause. In the US, they’re dead. Neither body washed up to shore, nor no one was going to spend large sums of money to comb through a patch of the Atlantic Ocean to look for them. So they’re dead.

Jack knew better. He had a hunch that led him out of the US, out of the FBI, and into a chase for them both.

He rubs a hand over his face and sighs. Wandering over to the hotel bar, he plucks a bottle of whiskey from a simple wire stand. He pours an ample amount into a glass and takes a long sip. It burns the back of his throat, but it shakes any stray thoughts from his mind. Putting the glass back down, he pours out more.

There’s a soft click. He barely hears it, but he does: and recognises it as the closing of the door. It’s such a quiet sound, but in the silence of the room, it’s deafening.

It’s enough for an ice cold chill to flash through his veins.

A familiar voice sounds from behind him. “Hello, Jack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, funny story: I just finished a 13,000-word research project for my final year in college. With that out of the way, I have so much more time to write. Of course, I still have assignments and exams left to do, but in contrast to the research project, they're a walk in the park. 
> 
> I have an idea about what to do next chapter in regards to Emilia slowly becoming more like Hannibal & Will... Just bear with me.


	11. Baracoa, Cuba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack reunites with Hannibal and Will, while Emilia learns more about their past. 
> 
> Alternate title: A Graham-Lecter family meeting. (Ft. Jack Crawford)

Everything seems to slip away. The layers of reality around them peel back slowly, leaving only the three of them: standing just a few feet away from each other.

When the final layer is gone, and they seem to stand in void nothingness, everything suddenly snaps back together again. Jack’s body lurches towards the bed – a handgun lying on top of the bedsheets. Will, being a smaller and lighter frame than the other man, makes the same abrupt movement and quickly snatches the gun, stepping back to cock and aim it straight at Jack.

The other man’s hands freeze where they are – one supporting his body over the bed, and one to his side. Hannibal’s hand is by his waistband: a knife concealed in sheathe attached to his belt.

Jack breathes heavily through his nose. If panic is setting in, it doesn’t show in any other way apart from his harsh breathing.

“The years haven’t been kind to you, Special Agent Crawford,” Will says slowly. Each word is measured and void of any telling expression. Jack stared back at him: even with the bad lighting of the hotel room, he can see the sunken lines around Jack’s eyes and cheeks. How his mouth is naturally pulled down at the sides. His eyes are dulled. Without taking his gaze off of Jack, Will says over to Hannibal, “What do you think, _mano meilė_?”

Hannibal takes his hand away from his waist: the lapel of his suit jacket falls back down and conceals the knife again. He regards Jack for a silent moment, before he hums. “Come now, _mylimasis_ , he’s been on quite a chase over the last few years. He must be tired.”

Jack turns his palms to face Will. He slowly, and grunting slightly, stands up to full height.

Will tilts his head slightly. His grip on the gun tightens. “He can rest later,” he says, glowering slightly at the man, “but we have some questions for you first, Jack.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Emilia and the dogs get into town, it has fallen asleep. The streetlamps light the streets with a soft orange hue. The shops have closed up, and the families that live above them have their curtains pulled and lights off. She’s walked through the streets at night before. Sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep, she would walk into and through town. The dogs would always come with her. Sometimes, her Dad would come with her and they’d talk about anything that came to mind. Even though the streets now are bathed in strange light, she still knows where to go.

There are a couple of hotels within the town. She heard her fathers talk about the _Hotel de Castillo_.

She keeps her hands stuffed into her jacket pockets. The gun is in one. Her palm is clammy around its grip. She’s managed to even her breathing on the walk into town. Both dogs are trotting closely beside her, practically treading on her heels.

With every street she walks through – every corner she rounds and step she takes – her breathing gets quicker. Her heart hammers against her ribcage – it feels like it’s going to break through and launch out of her chest.

Cato yips at her side. She sends a quick glance down at the dog. “I’m okay,” she says to the dog, and slightly to herself. Cato has spent so many hours accompanying her Papa that she thinks that he’s learned some of his _looks_. The dog almost seems to send her one of Papa’s looks – one he uses when he knows she’s omitting something from him.

She knows the layout of the hotel. Hannibal used to bring her to it when they first arrived to the town. With a simple hand gesture, the dogs wait patiently by the front door of the hotel. The reception is a wide, open space that leads straight through and to the back of the hotel – where there’s a pool and stairs leading up to the rooms.

She looks at the reception desk. There’s a lamp on, but no one at it. _They’re probably in the back room_. She waits for a moment. There’s a slight hum of sound in the air. She recognises it as cheering from a soccer match. Satisfied that no one will be coming out anytime soon, she turns and clicks her fingers to the dogs. Both Dante and Cato quickly fall to her side as they all stalk through the reception. Outside, the stairs that lead up to the rooms are dimly lit by moonlight. It’s enough light for her to make out the steps.

She puts one hand back into her jacket pocket: her palm fits comfortably around the grip of the gun.

The dogs follow her up the stairs. When they get to the top, Dante lowers his nose to the ground and sniffs what Emilia can only guess is a myriad of scents. She clicks her fingers again and he snaps back to attention. Cato has already trotted a couple of feet in front of her.

He stops outside one room in particular, nosing against the bottom of the door. His tail wags as he recognises the scent. Dante follows suit, and the larger dog sits in front of the door.

 _There they are_ , Emilia thinks to herself. Dante always sits outside her fathers’ room in the morning. She slowly stalks across the exposed landing. Whether it’s the sharp sea breeze wafting through the town or the sudden realisation of what she’s doing, but a spike of coldness wracks through her body. Her entire frame shakes slightly with it.

Dante tilts his head at her.

Tightening the grip she has on her gun, she stands in front of the door to the room. There are muffled voices inside. A frown settles across her brow. She doesn’t know what she expected – yelling, screaming, gunshots, maybe – but not this. This...this sounds like a casual conversation.

With her free hand, she reaches for the handle of the door. She’s slightly surprised when the handle folds, opening the locks to the door. “Stay out here,” she says to the dogs, using her free hand to signal to them to _stay_.

She takes a long, measured breath in, before she opens the door and steps inside.

 

* * *

 

 

Three men are in various areas of the room. Jack sits stock-still at the foot of the bed, hands clasped in front of him, but in plain sight. Hannibal stands in the doorway of the bathroom, the door open and the sound of a tap running breaking the sudden silence that has fallen on the room. Will is sitting in a chair, pulled up to be a few feet in front of Jack.

As soon as she steps into the room, all three men look at her. And _stare_.

“Emilia,” is the first thing that is spoken. The word leaves Will’s mouth as a breath. Where Hannibal is stoically neutral in his facial expression, Will’s face shadows into something terrifying.

“ _We told you to stay at home_ ,” Hannibal says suddenly in Lithuanian. He taught her his mother-tongue when she was still small. Just like Hannibal, she has a collection of languages at her disposal.

She curls into herself slightly. “ _I’m sorry, Papa_ ,” she replies.

Will stares at her for a moment, before turning back towards Jack. It’s then she notices the gun that’s in Will’s hand, casually resting on his left thigh.

Jack is staring at her. They all are, but it’s him that she stares back at.

“I had a hunch that there was something about you,” he says slowly.

“Don’t you _dare_ speak to her,” Will suddenly snarls at Jack. The other man’s face remains neutral. Emilia can see the grip Will has on the gun tighten to the point of his knuckles turning white. “One more word directed at her, or about her, and this conversation is over.”

Hannibal has made his way across the room and gently takes Emilia’s hand in his. Her other is still in her jacket pocket. Her palm is clammy around the grip of the gun. “ _Darling girl, you must go home now_.”

“ _No_ ,” she says. Hannibal’s neutral expression fractures slightly. “ _I want to stay_ -”

“-Emilia-”

She meets his gaze. A small smile catches the side of her mouth. “I want to stay,” she says firmly. Now in English, it’s enough for Will to look over to them.

She steps around Hannibal, wandering a couple of steps closer to where Will and Jack are. Hannibal’s hand on hers tightens slightly. “Go on,” she nods at them, “don’t let me interrupt.”

A soft laugh bubbles out of Jack’s throat. “Quite a kid you got there,” he says, looking straight at Will, “tell me, where’d you two kidnap her from?”

“Where she came from is none of your concern,” Will says slowly.

Jack tilts his head slightly. “I’m just wondering how you replaced her so quickly. I mean, she’s your new daughter now, isn’t she?”

Without moving his head, his eyes flicker over to Emilia. Her stomach almost twists.

The corner of Jack’s lip turns up slightly. “Did they tell you what happened to their last daughter?”

The noise that leaves Hannibal is something akin to a growl.

The gun in Will’s hand is suddenly pointed at Jack’s forehead: the end of the barrel pressed against the man’s forehead. “I warned you, Special Agent,” Will snarls. Will pulls the trigger of the gun and a simple _click_ sounds through the room. Jack’s body almost recoils away from the gun. His eyes dart quickly around the room when he realises he’s still alive.

A new cartilage flicks into place.

Emilia looks between her fathers. “What is he talking about?”

“Ask them about an Abigail Hobbs, Emilia,” Jack says effortlessly. If there’s any fear of Will or Hannibal left in him, he’s certainly not showing it. “Ask them what happened to her.”

“ _Papa_?”

“ _Hush, come now_.” Hannibal’s voice is calm as he takes both of her hands in his. He runs his palm against the back of her hands. “ _This man’s lies shouldn’t bother you_.”

“Abigail Hobbs was a _girl_ you pushed to the edge. Just like you did to me.” Will’s words are slow and measured. His voice barely carries any volume. “She didn’t do anything wrong, but because making her your scapegoat made your job so much easier, you condemned her fate to be that of a murderer.”

“I didn’t crave her throat open because of a _lover’s spat_ ,” Jack hisses back at him. Will pulls the trigger again. Another click. Another blank cartridge.

“ _Papa_?” Emilia steps closer to Hannibal. Most of his torso blocks her from her view of Jack, and Jack’s view of her. “ _What’s he talking about? Please_.”

Hannibal frames her face in both of his hands, rubbing her surfacing cheekbones with his thumbs. “ _Dovana, you needn’t fret about anything. We promise. Step outside while we deal with this unpleasantness_.”

Will’s hand that holds the gun doesn’t even shake. Harsh breaths leave his nose almost rhythmically. “You signed your own death sentence by coming here, Special Agent,” he says, eyes growing dark, “you should have left us alone.”

Hannibal turns to look at them over his shoulder. When he looks back to Emilia, her face has grown paler. “ _Come_ ,” he wraps his arms around her and pulls her to his chest. He reaches up to rest a gentle hand on the back of her head, trying to turn her face away from the execution that is coming. “ _Turn away_.”

Emilia’s eyes are locked with Jack’s. “ _No_ ,” she eventually mumbles, “ _I want to see_.”

Jack’s hands are a blur as they clamp over Will’s, suddenly jerking the man’s hand – and gun – away from his head. Will pulls the trigger but another blank clicks. Before Jack has the chance to wrestle the gun out of Will’s hand, a loud clear shot rings through the room.

Jack’s head snaps to the side, and his body tumbles heavily to the ground.

Will, breathing harshly from the slight fight, looks over to Hannibal and Emilia.

Emilia’s entire arm shakes as she holds her gun out.

Hannibal turns his body slightly and reaches up, curling his hand around hers. He hushes her when her breathing suddenly begins to quicken. Sharp barks can be heard outside. “ _Hush, hush, my darling girl, you’re safe_ ,” he mumbles. He takes the barrel of the gun with one hand and manages to gently pull it out from Emilia’s grip. Her arm flops down to her side.

Hannibal hands the gun off to Will, who almost trips over his own feet as he surges out of the chair. Jack’s body remains forgotten on the floor. He quickly places himself in front of Emilia. Sharp, quick breaths are sucked in, and her chest is expanding and falling too quickly. Her eyes are wide and continue to grow as the seconds pass.

“Breathe, baby, breathe,” Will says gently. He frames Emilia’s face with his hands, his touch soft but firm, urging her eyes to meet with his. He breathes with her.

Hannibal removes himself from her side. The barking outside continues. He reaches for the door, opening it slightly. Two muzzles lodge in between the door and the doorframe, and Dante’s large frame suddenly breaks through, pushing the door wide open. Both dogs sprint into the room. Dante pushes his wet nose into her palm while Cato nudges her knee.

“You’re safe, you’re with us,” Will says quietly, pressing his forehead to Emilia’s, “nothing will ever happen to you.”

The reassurance doesn’t help, as after almost a minute trying to regulate her breathing, Emilia’s wide eyes suddenly close and she slumps heavily against Will’s front. He catches her and gently brings her to lie on the ground. The dogs whine as they swarm her.

Will shoos them away while he moves Emilia’s head to rest against his shoulder. He wraps his fingers around her wrist, pressing two fingers to her pulse point. It’s shallow at first, and slightly irregular, but within a few seconds it evens out.

Hannibal works silently behind them both. The sounds of something dragging across the room’s carpet breaks the silence that has fallen over the room. “Panic attack?” he asks.

Will looks over his shoulder. He can’t see Hannibal, or Jack’s body. “Yeah,” Will sighs. He turns back around and gently rocks Emilia’s limp body in his arms. “She’ll come around in a minute.”

Hannibal hums. More shuffling and shifting noises sound before he is suddenly kneeling down beside Will. “We need to go soon,” he informs him. Despite the urgency of what he said, Hannibal reaches out to smooth the back of his finger against Emilia’s cheek. She twitches slightly at the touch. “The gunshot will draw attention.”

He suddenly looks at Will. “I’ve done the best I can with the scene. There shouldn’t be any problems.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooooooooooooooooh.
> 
> [I had an idea of something really cool Emilia could do while making dinner today. Details to arrive soon.]


	12. Baracoa, Cuba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout from the previous night.

Will wakes with the sun the next morning. Streaks of watery light crawl slowly along the floorboards towards the bed. The body behind him is still, occasionally shuffling beneath the sheets. Hannibal’s arm is still lazily draped around his middle, holding him loosely against the other’s chest. Will brushes his fingers along Hannibal’s forearm, softly drawing patterns on the exposed flesh.

His mind has been wandering all night. They wasted no time in getting home. Hannibal assured him that he had dealt with the scene they left behind. Will trusted him enough to focus on Emilia. He ended up carrying the unconscious girl down to their car – parked among a collection of trees near the hotel. She didn’t move once while he carried her, or even put her into the car. Hannibal joined him at the car, carrying a thick, worn file in his hand. _Their pictures and news reports_ , Will thought.

The drive home was quiet. Hannibal drove silently along the back roads, reaching across to take one of Will’s hands in his. It grounded him. The warm touch managed to chase away any prodding thoughts within Will’s mind. Once they were home, Will carried Emilia into the house and to her room. She surfaced slightly, looking at Will with confused, bleary eyes for a moment, before slipping back into darkness again. He made sure there was a glass of water on her bedside table before covering her with thick blankets. Hannibal burned the file, stoking it in the fireplace, making sure every trace of them was wiped away.

Will remembers a time where, after a hunt, he and Hannibal would always indulge in more carnal behaviours. Memories flood back to him of them after a hunt, sometimes clean and sometimes still drenched in blood: one pinning the other to their bed and writhing against each other. They didn’t last night. They couldn’t. Instead, they both silently slipped underneath the sheets, entangled in each other, and went to sleep.

He’s been awake for a while now. One look at the clock on his bedside cabinet informs him it’s been more than four hours since he was stirred awake by thoughts of harm falling on Emilia. Hannibal’s arm tightens around him slightly, pressing Will’s back more firmly against his chest. His nose is pressed into the conjuncture of his neck and shoulder. Deep, even breaths have fallen from him all night. Will is almost jealous of it. It’s a jealousy that’s quickly chased away. Hannibal’s concerned about her too. Will’s the one that wears it on his sleeve.

Knowing he won’t get back to sleep, he slowly and carefully untangles himself from Hannibal’s hold. He half-expects the man to wake up, but he doesn’t: Hannibal just buries his nose into Will’s pillow and curls in on himself beneath the sheets.

The floor is chilly when Will places his bare feet on it. He’s able to grab a pair of thick, woollen socks and pull them on. Curled up at the foot of the bed is Cato, silently watching him move about the room putting on any warm clothes he can find. When fully dressed, Will clicks his fingers for the dog to follow him. He’s met with beady little eyes blinking at him, before Cato curls back into a ball and falls back asleep.

Will quietly leaves the room, closing the door with a soft _click_ behind him. The house is deathly quiet. Emilia would always be up at this time; home from town, she would be pottering around the house. Without her up, though, silence is sitting heavily within the house. He pads down the hallway to her room.

Gently eases the door open, he’s able to just peek inside. Emilia is facing the bay window, her frame covered up to her shoulder with blankets. Dante’s large body takes up the other side of the bed: the dog’s eyes bleary, but open. His ears prick up when he spots Will and his heavy tail starts thumping lightly against the bed as he wags it.

Will nods to the dog, who quickly falls back asleep, and closes out the door. He walks through the house, grabbing the piece of paper that’s on the kitchen table. In Hannibal’s elegant script, there’s a list of groceries that he needs for the coming days. Will runs his eyes over the list, pocketing it when he’s done.

 

* * *

 

 

“Morning, Señor Espinosa.” Juan is preparing some cuts of beef when Will steps into the store. The town is quiet. His walk here was uneventful and mostly plagued with thoughts of the previous night pulling at him: trying to get his attention. He’s done this for too long. He’s learned to sweep them away.

Juan looks up and smiles brightly. “Señor Osborne! What can I do for you?”

It’s been a while since Will has seen the Espinosas. His mood almost immediately changes once he’s inside the store. The store, like the rest of the town, is quiet. A couple is sitting at one of the small metal tables outside, sipping coffee and chatting among themselves.

“Just these, please Juan.” Will hands over a small piece of paper.

Juan scans his eyes over the paper and nods firmly. “I’ll be a moment, Senor.”

His mind still wanders to Emilia. An unspoken question among both Hannibal and him was always ‘when is Emilia going to get involved?’ It’s a question he hated for years. Whenever Hannibal sought to discuss it, or even mention it around him, Will would always shut down and walk out of whatever room or situation he was in. Emilia, in his eyes, was still a young girl. The young girl that he took from that boat in Italy. The young girl that he taught to read and write and fish. The young girl that he helped weather nightmare-ridden nights and assure her that nothing would ever _touch_ her, let alone harm her.

All of that was slowly fading away. She’s involved in their business now. And he hates it.

He’s shaken from his thoughts when he hears his name – or his assumed name.

“Señor Osborne?”

He turns and sees Maria at the other end of the store, putting down a large wooden crate of proved dough. She dusts off her hands and steps around the display, striding over to him with arms out. “It’s been too long! Where have you been, _Querido_?”

Will hugs her just as tightly as she hugs him. “I’ve been busy, Maria: making sure the house and everyone in it doesn’t fall apart.”

Pulling away from him, she tisks loudly. “That boorish man: keeping you locked in that house like a princess. You’re very pale, _Querido_ , you need to be out in the sun! Tell that husband of yours that I’m very cross at him.”

He laughs. “I’m sure he’ll listen to whatever you say, Maria.”

She gathers his hands in hers. “How’s Emilia? We haven’t seen her in a while. Juan misses seeing his _princesa_.”

“She’s been a bit ill recently, that’s all. Henry insisted that she stays at home for a few days, where we can keep an eye on her.”

Maria nods. She frowns slightly – something that seems to cast a small shadow over her features despite the bright sun shining outside.

“Did you hear about what happened at the _Hotel de Castillo_?” she says to him, her voice almost hushed in a whisper.

He’s been doing this too long not to have a poker-face ready. But there’s something different about this one. Whether it was Jack being their prey, or the fact that Emilia was involved, this one is starting to haunt him. He manages to muster a confused look on his face. “I didn’t, actually. What happened?”

Maria clicks her tongue. “That tourist who was here a few days ago,” she sighs, “they found him dead in his room. Suicide, they think.”

He frowns slightly at that. Hannibal must have left their gun behind, or at least put it in Jack’s hand. They were careful enough to be wearing gloves. The gun Emilia has is in their house. Hannibal was meticulous with making sure that Jack’s death couldn’t be traced back to them.

“He was an odd man,” Maria says, taking her hands from Will’s. She gathers a handful of fabric and begins to toy with it. “What a tragic way to go. Must have been plagued by something terrible to take his own life, poor man.”

Will opens his mouth to reply, but closes it when Juan comes out from the back room with bags in both hands. “Now, Señor Osborne! Everything you asked for.”

“Thank you, Señor Espinosa,” he replies warmly. Gathering the bags, he looks to Maria. “I’ll tell Emilia that you were both asking for her.”

Maria reaches out and places a hand on Will’s arm. The touch is warm against Will’s skin, even through the jacket and sweater sleeve covering his arm. “Take some pastries back for her, won’t you?” Before Will can even respond, the woman is already behind the display and packing away a large bag of pastries.

 

* * *

 

 

Hannibal is in the kitchen when he comes home. The dogs didn’t greet him at the front of the house, nor are they in the kitchen. He frowns. They’re usually here when Hannibal is cooking – sitting patiently by his feet, waiting for Hannibal to indulge them in a piece of vegetables or meat. He’ll never admit it to either Will or Emilia, but he loves the dogs.

Still, not seeing them in their usual place in the kitchen is slightly odd.

“Emilia’s still sleeping,” Hannibal informs him, keeping his eyes on the job in front of him. “Cato joined Dante’s vigil in watching over her. They’re not going to be moving anytime soon.”

Will places the bags on the other side of the table. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lip at the thought of it. Every being – human or animal – in this house seems intent on protecting that girl. “The Espinosas asked for her today. I told them she was ill.”

Hannibal hums, moving the chopped vegetables to one side of the board. “With Jack dealt with, I’m happy to let her go back into town.”

“She was getting restless,” Will nods. Silence falls between the two of them, but it’s not one Will seeks to fill. It settles between them comfortably. He digs out the bag of pastries and puts them on the table. “Maria gave me these to give to her.”

Hannibal’s gaze flicks up to the bag. “She’s too nice to her,” he admonishes, but a faint smile is on his lips.

“And she spoke to me about the hotel,” Will continues. That’s what makes Hannibal stop working completely. “She said that the police think it’s just a tourist’s suicide.”

Hannibal regards Will for a moment. “Good,” he says simply, before returning to preparing dinner.

Will stares at him. “ _Good_? What’s good about it?”

“It can’t be traced back to us,” Hannibal replies easily like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I told you Will: I took care of everything. There’s no need to worry about anything.”

“I’m not worried about that. I couldn’t give a shit if they found out everything. I’m worried about Emilia.”

“Once she wakes up, she’ll have breakfast and then we’ll speak to her.”

Will frowns. Hannibal’s voice is so infuriatingly calm: it’s like he’s discussing the weather. “And tell her what?”

Hannibal reaches over to the bags and pulls them to him. He rifles through them for a second before pulling out a small plastic bag of minced pork. Will’s question hangs between them, floating in the silence.

Will walks around the worktop, slowly reaching out to brush his fingers along Hannibal’s exposed forearms. “Hannibal-”

Whatever he wants to say dies when he sees Hannibal’s grip on his knife: white-knuckled and shaking slightly. His eyes are focused on the minced meat sprawled out on the chopping board. Will slowly places his palm on Hannibal’s arm, rubbing his thumb against the exposed skin.

“Talk to me,” Will urges gently.

“When he spoke of Abigail,” Hannibal’s voice cracks slightly over the name, “I...I never experienced a rage like it. I can always contain myself – to an extent. But everything flooded back to me: memories and emotions. All because he said a _name_.”

Will presses his body more into Hannibal’s. “The name of someone who was very dear to us.” His own voice is starting to wobble. Tears prick the back of his eyes. “It’s okay, what you experienced. Reacting like that only shows how much you cared for her. You said to me a few days ago, that if Jack or anyone placed a finger on Emilia, you’d destroy them.”

The knife clatters to the board, and within a second, Hannibal’s arms are around him. Their embrace is tight – Will’s breath is almost forced out of him. He gently places his hands on Hannibal’s back, rubbing gently.

They stand there for a moment, holding each other. Hannibal moves his head, pressing his nose into Will’s neck. “We lost Abigail because of games between us,” he mumbles. His voice sounds as strained as Will’s heart feels. “Stupid, childish games that took much more than they gave. Emilia won’t be Abigail.”

Will reaches up and threads his fingers through Hannibal’s hair. “There’s no reason for us to play games with each other anymore,” he hushes the other man, “we know where we stand with each other now.”

Hannibal’s arms around Will tighten. “I love you,” he mumbles against the skin of Will’s neck.

Will blinks back tears threatening to fall. “I love you,” he repeats to the other man.

Silence falls between them again. Unable to let any tears form, a dull headache is forming between Will’s eyes. He brushes the pain of it away.

His ears prick at the sound of paws against floorboards. He nudges Hannibal’s head with his own. Hannibal doesn’t move. He indulges the other man by holding him for a few more moments before he hears the sound of muffled footsteps padding into the kitchen. Hannibal lifts his head from Will’s shoulder.

“ _Dovana_ ,” he breathes. Will manages to turn around in Hannibal’s tight hold, looking over his shoulder to Emilia.

Standing in the doorway of the kitchen, she looks...exhausted. Her hair is messily pulled back into a bun. Her clothes are baggy around her frame, with her sweater falling off of one shoulder. Emilia tugs at the end of her sleeve. The look on her face is unreadable.

She opens her mouth, and in a cracked voice, asks, “Who’s Abigail?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm delaying the "Who's Abigail"-Talk for the next chapter because I wanted to focus on Will & Hannibal, and their own fallout in this one. Sue me.
> 
> There's going to be a time jump within the coming chapters. Plot Gold awaits (I hope).


	13. Baracoa, Cuba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emilia is told about Abigail.

The _click_ of the cooker turning off resonates through the silent kitchen. Hannibal’s hand lingers on the ignition.

Will leans back against the marble counter, holding on to the edge with a tight grip, afraid he might just slip away. His breathing is measured, but his heart feels as if it might burst through his ribcage.

“Come here, _dovana_ ,” Hannibal says gently. Every sound in the kitchen is amplified that bit more. Will wonders distantly if either Hannibal or Emilia can hear his heart hammering against his chest. His eyes flicker over to Hannibal. He sees the other man outstretching one hand towards Emilia.

She slowly steps into the kitchen, wandering towards Hannibal’s outstretched hand. With every step, the unreadable resolve she’s cemented on to her face begins to crack. Pieces of it fall away as she nears him, and almost falls into his arms when she reaches him. Hannibal hugs her firmly to him, resting his chin on the top of her head. He hushes her as he rocks them both gently. “Everything’s alright. We’ll explain everything.”

Will watches them. A chill nips at his veins, slowly spreading through them around his body.

The scene looks so familiar. It’s as if he can see Abigail here. Emilia looks nothing like their last daughter, but it’s her eyes that always get him. A different colour and shape to Abi’s, but it’s a flicker of something unearthly within them: she’s walking among angels and demons, paying both gatherings equal attention.

But it’s how she looks in his arms, in a kitchen that looks nothing like his old one, a sea of red, warm blood suddenly starts bubbling up through the floor.

He won’t hurt her. Will knows that Hannibal would _never_ hurt her, but looking at them standing there, broken and shattered images of him standing with Abigail blink back. Will squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. Those thoughts have no place here anymore.

Emilia leans back slightly from Hannibal’s embrace, looking up at her Papa with watery eyes. “ _You promised you would tell me everything_.” Her voice cracks around the Lithuanian words pouring out of her. “ _You_ promised.”

Hannibal presses a quick kiss to her hairline. “ _I know I did. But Will and I didn’t want too much to be burdened on you too soon._ ”

At the mention of Will’s name, he tightens his grip on the marble countertop. He tries to force his breathing to remain even, but Emilia’s gaze catches his. In her eyes, tears are starting to well. His expression softens. Swallowing a stubborn lump sticking in his throat, he manages to say, “we’ll explain everything.”

 

* * *

 

 

They move into the living room. Emilia and Will sit in the two armchairs while Hannibal wordlessly stokes the fire. Emilia picks at a fraying thread starting to separate from the leather of the armrest. Her legs are brought up underneath her: slippers kicked off in front of her chair. Will is slouched against one side of the chair, a half-empty glass of whiskey cupped in one hand. Hannibal stokes new flames out of the fire. The light catches his face: sorrow and worry etched deep into his expression.

“Abigail...” Will’s voice cracks around the name. He clears his throat. “When your Papa and I lived in America, we both met a girl called Abigail. She...Her father had been involved in a string of murders.”

Emilia stares at the threat passing between her fingers, but she nods every so often. She pauses at the last thing Will says. “Did you know her father?”

Will takes a swig of whiskey. “To an extent,” he explains. “I used to work for the FBI. I was asked to work on the Shrike case. I spent too long working that case. Eventually, we found him at his home. He’d been tipped off that we were coming. When we got there, he had killed his wife. She died on the front porch of the house.”

Emilia looks up finally, settling him with an unreadable expression. “And Abigail?”

“He tried to kill her too,” Hannibal speaks up from his place at the fireplace. He’s watching the flames lick the blocks of wood inside, sparking occasionally with a loud crack and flash of light. “She survived, and then was put into a mental institute due to the trauma. Both Will and I visited her regularly, offering help whenever we could.”

Will drains the last of his whiskey. He lets the feeling of it burning his throat resonate with him for a moment. “She didn’t deserve any of it. She was a good person.”

Emilia watches him carefully. Every so often, something flashes throughout his face. He’s so good at hiding his emotions. But every few seconds, the light of the fire highlights something horrid flashing across his features.

“What happened to her?” she asks slowly. Jack Crawford’s words whisper in her mind, tugging gently, but annoyingly, at her consciousness: begging to be listened to. She brushes them away. She doesn’t need his words. She needs those of her fathers.

Will’s eyes flicker to Hannibal. The other man remains motionless by the fire, arm resting along the mantelpiece. “She was killed,” Will says lowly. His eyelids flicker closed. Taking a deep breath, he lets it out around the words, “Hannibal killed her.”

A deep frown forms on Emilia’s brow. She looks over to Hannibal. “What?”

There’s a silent moment between everyone in the room.

“You need to understand, _dovana_ ,” Hannibal’s voice is eerily measured as he speaks, “Will and I, for too long, played horrid and idiotic games with each other: wanting to see how far one could push the other. Abigail was unfortunately caught in the middle of it.”

Coldness runs through Emilia’s veins. She can’t fathom it. She can’t fathom any of it. Gathering the thread back between her fingers, she picks at it. “So, what? What Jack said is true?”

Will winces. “What Jack said is what _he_ believed to be true. It’s what anyone who reads sensational news articles believes to be true. What happened didn’t happen because we were _feuding lovers_ ,” the last few words are almost spat out, “it happened because we didn’t know how to stop pushing each other. The results of it were disastrous.”

Hannibal finally moves away from the fire. His movements are slow. In the dim light of the fire, turned away from its main light, Emilia looks up and sees how aged he is. She doesn’t see the grey hair or the wrinkles along his eyes or mouth; she sees how exhausted he is. She sees someone who is remorseful.

“What am I to you?” The words leave as a whisper. The silence that follows them sags in the air around them. For a second, she thinks their non-response may be because they didn’t hear her. She opens her mouth to repeat herself, but Will’s cracked voice jumps in.

“Our daughter.” The finality of those two words hit her in the gut. He continues. “When I look at you, I see a little girl who needed saving, and was saved. Someone who grew up to be a force to be reckoned with, but who loves unconditionally.”

Hannibal stands by the side of Will’s chair, letting his fingers brush along Will’s shoulder. The other man reaches up to interlink their fingers. Taking a deep breath, Will sighs. “Sometimes I see Abigail. It’s brief, and fleeting, but I see flashes of her in you. But then as soon as she appears, she’s gone, and you’re left behind.”

Emilia bites the inside of her cheek. “I wish I could have met her,” she croaks.

Will regales her with more stories of Abigail. Hannibal injects with some of his own. As the hours tick by, Emilia’s able to build a picture in her head of what their life must have been like all those years ago. Pieces of information she already had locked away clicks into place. She knows why they had to leave that life behind them.

With every story told sadness slowly seeps out of them both and turns into something else. It isn’t joy, or happiness, but they do smile occasionally. _Fondness_ , her mind supplies as she watches them intently. _Remembrance_.

The day outside moves by as they stay in the living room. Dark clouds heavy with rain settled over the town an hour ago, and now the occasional heavy drop of water splatters against the window panes. A rumble of thunder rolls through the town.

Hannibal eventually leaves to continue with dinner. She can hear him moving around in the kitchen, the sounds of pots and pans boiling and hissing, and eventually, she breathes in the familiar smell of pork being cooked. All at once, ghosts of their past lives slowly leave their home.

Dinner is quiet. The sound of cutlery against plates is the only sound that breaks the silence that has settled over them. It’s not a silence that seeks to be filled.

Hannibal stands and takes their plates, quietly retiring to the kitchen. Will takes measured sips of wine, looking at his fingers curled around the stem of the glass. Knowing that he won’t say anymore tonight, she pushes away from the table and stands. She walks over to him and places a kiss on his temple. “Goodnight, dad.” The words hang heavily in the air in the room. She waits a few seconds before she starts to move away.

Hannibal returns to the dining room after a number of minutes, drying his hands in a towel. Will hasn’t moved from the table. His glass is almost empty, with one last small mouthful of red wine lingering at the bottom.

“We spent a large portion of the day speaking about our past lives,” Will says evenly, his eyes focused on the rim of his glass, “and we didn’t even ask her if she is okay.”

The other man is silent for a moment. He looks over to the door of the living room, out into the hallway where she disappeared into. “She doesn’t seem perturbed,” Hannibal replies.

At that, Will raises his gaze to Hannibal. “She _shot_ someone. She killed Jack.”

A sigh leaves Hannibal’s nose before he strides slowly towards Will. “She doesn’t seem perturbed,” he repeats himself. When he’s close enough, he brushes the back of his fingers against Will’s cheekbone. The other man’s eyelids flutter closed at the touch.

“That should worry me,” Will says almost absently. He puts down his glass and shoves back from the table. He makes it to the bottom of the staircase before realising there isn’t the tell-tale sound of Hannibal’s footsteps behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

She didn’t bother turning on the light when she got to her room. With no sun outside, the room is dark, but enough dim light to highlight the outlines of bundles of clothes on the floor, the sides of cabinets, and where her bed is.

When she closes the door out behind her, a dark-brown mass jolts in between the closing door and the door frame. Dante leaps up on to her bed, sitting down obediently, and wagging his tail. When she doesn’t smile at the dog, the wagging stops.

“Get down, Dante,” she mumbles, no heat at all behind her words. The dog tilts his head, confused, but remains where he is. Emilia shrugs off her sweater, toeing off her shoes, and flings herself on to her bed. The dog pads over to her, lying down with a deep huff of breath.

Dante rests his head on her stomach. Weary brown eyes look up at her.

She reaches up and scratches behind his ears. They twitch. “Good dog,” she whispers, digging her fingers into the downy hair behind his ears, knowing that scratching his skin is something he likes.

An unknowable amount of time seems to slug by before there’s a gentle knock on the door.

She looks over to it. Regarding it for a second, she sighs. “Come in.”

It opens slowly, and with a deafening creak, but Will eventually steps into the room. Dante raises his head, and his tail starts wagging when he spots Will.

Will rubs the back of his neck, and gives a small gesture to the other side of her bed. “Can I sit?”

His voice is small, she notices. Nothing like how he usually sounds. She nods and pats Dante’s hindquarters to move and make some space. The dog obediently moves, but puts his head back on Emilia’s stomach. He watches Will sit with unblinking eyes.

“It seems stupid to ask you this now, but how are you feeling?” Will almost laughs halfway through the question.

Emilia goes back to scratching Dante’s ears. “Okay, given the circumstances.”

A slight frowns creases Will’s brow. “I’m not talking about downstairs, Emmy.”

“I know,” she says simply, and not following it with anything else for a moment. “The answer is still the same.”

His frown deepens.

At his silence, she looks up at him. “Does that bother you? That I’m fine?”

“Normally, it wouldn’t,” Will replies, but his frown doesn’t budge. “But in this case, it does.”

Emilia looks back at Dante’s ears, pricked and twitching from being scratched. The dog’s muzzle resting firmly on her stomach nuzzles into her. “I suppose that it should bother _me_. How can I be fine with what I did? But it’s not the first time I ever saw something like that.”

Will’s heart thuds against his ribcage. Something heavy and cold threatens to drop into his stomach. Memories of how she arrived into their world flash back to him: the boat all of those years ago. How the sheer white and chrome interior of a rich man's yacht was splattered and stained red.

Emilia shrugs a shoulder. “All things considered, I think I’m numb to it all.” She looks back up at him. “Papa offered to help me with my anxiety. I really would like to stop having panic attacks. They’re getting annoying.”

Everything wrong with the conversation their having seems to flutter away. A noise-less laugh bubbles out of Will. “I know the feeling,” he says quietly. They don’t speak after that. Will buries his fingers into the lush fur covering Dante’s back. The dog sighs contently as he’s petted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time Jump next chapter. Not a massive one: we won't be seeing Adult Emilia for a while. But Teenage Emilia is here to kick ass and eat cookies. And she's all out of cookies. 
> 
> Comments & Kudos gladly welcomed!


	14. Florence, Italy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emilia entangles herself further into Hannibal and Will's lives.

It’s comical how easily they slipped into Florence-life unnoticed. They arrived during the night, and by the next morning, no one had batted an eye at the new couple and their daughter suddenly living in the always-vacant apartment.

Their home is a penthouse just outside the main city: perched at the top of a block of apartments, overlooking a small courtyard that’s always full of people walking through it. Their small balcony looks out on to it, and it’s become a favourite perching spot of both Hannibal and Emilia. Hannibal likes sketching the cityscape: the rose-gold coloured roofs that spread out over the city like an ocean. Emilia just likes watching the people.

She overheard Will asking if this is where Hannibal hid with a Dr Du Maurier. Emilia looked over her shoulder at her fathers. Will’s tone was light and joking, but his face was anything but. It was just as measured and controlled as it is during hunts. Hannibal said that it wasn’t. Emilia frowned at the name. She didn’t recognise it. So she went back to watching people from the balcony, and that was the end of that. The penthouse is their home for a number of years. It’s not like Baracoa. But Baracoa is not like Munich. Nothing happened in Baracoa. They didn’t flood it in blood. Jack Crawford’s death was never traced back to them. He had said that he was working their case alone, and he was. No one ever came asking about what happened to him. Emilia was sad to see Cuba behind, but they could go back to it. Hannibal promised that they would. They brought the dogs with them. Emilia wouldn’t leave the country without them. They cleared quarantine within a couple of weeks, and once let inside the apartment and reunited with their owner, they didn’t leave Emilia’s side.

Hannibal managed to get her a tutor within a few weeks of them living there. He did so when he realised that the books of his various libraries were always read, or reread, within a year or two. She didn’t mind. It gave her something to do with her time during the day. Her tutor is nice: an aged man called Dr Santoro. He has a wrinkled face and greying hair, but has enough life within his deep-set eyes to keep her attention. They spend each day discussing (or arguing) about history or literature: sometimes both. Will is always home and listens to them, a faint smile on his lips when she starts winning.

She never asks how her Papa knows Dr Santoro, but he eats meals with them before he leaves. She always watches the doctor and Papa speak. With all she knows now – about his and Dad’s life before her – she’s keen to listen out for any drops of information, or innuendos that Papa is quite fond of making. There’s never any, but she keeps doing it anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Scusami, Signorina Ricci!_ ”

Emilia glances over her shoulder towards the voice. It took her a while to get used to her fake name: answering to it as easily as she would to her actual one. She spots a boy jogging towards her. He’s one of Dr Santoro’s other mentees, she realises. He’s not someone she would forget: not much older than she is, or else the same age as her; tall and lithe, with a gaunt face and high cheekbones; and wavy, curly hair that bounces every time he takes a step. He’s slightly out of breath when he stands in front of her. “Apologies, _Signorina_ , but you left this behind at Dr Santoro’s office.”

He hands over one of her books: a red-leather bound version of Shelley’s _Frankenstein_. He’s wearing a brilliant bright smile. His light coloured eyes almost shine with it. “I’ve never read any of Shelley’s work.”

“You should,” Emilia says, taking the book from him gently. She grabs her satchel and flips the cover open, shoving the book inside between another leather-bound classic and a notepad full of scribbled notes. “ _Grazie_ , Marco,” she flashes him a faint smile, before turning on her heels and walking towards the Uffizi Gallery. She’s meeting her fathers there in an hour, and wants to grab something to eat before it. Her stomach growls slightly at the thought of food. Dr Santoro can sometimes go on for what seems like _hours_.

Marco quickly falls into step with her, staying close to her side through the rush of lunchtime human traffic that floods the courtyard. “Where are you going?” he asks, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. His eyes suddenly widen. “Sorry, sorry, that’s a weird thing to ask! I just meant, um, _merda_ , could I?-”

“I can’t today,” she shrugs her shoulder, adjusting the weight of her bag. She shoots Marco a sympathetic look. “I’m meeting my dads, and then I have things to do at home.”

Marco nods. His curls bounce again. “That’s good: that you’re spending time with them, that is.”

The response earns a raised eyebrow from Emilia.

Marco shrugs. “My father lives in Rome,” he explains, reaching up to run his fingers through his curls. They keep falling on to his face. She remembers when Will’s hair was starting to get long. “I live here with my _nonna_.”

She doesn’t ask why he doesn’t mention a mother. Instead, she keeps walking to the gallery. Marco accompanies her for a small portion of it. They talk idly for the walk – it’s mostly Marco talking with Emilia interjecting every so often. She would have preferred walking by herself, as she always does, but Marco’s chatting is nice to listen to.

He eventually leaves when his phone rings. “It’s my _nonna_ ,” he says, before answering the call and suddenly launching into a quick, Italian conversation. It seems very one-sided, Emilia smiles faintly, noting how it’s his grandmother doing most of the talking. He winces slightly. “ _Va bene, nonna_! _Va bene_! _Ciao_.”

He hangs up. “I need to go,” he laughs around the words, shoving his phone into his jacket pockets. He rubs the back of his neck. “It was nice talking to you. Sorry for rambling on and on like that.”

She smiles faintly. “It’s okay.”

Marco leaves with an awkward wave, stumbling over more words, before turning on his heel and disappearing into a wave of people coming from the city centre. Emilia turns around, the detailed front of the gallery meeting her. She takes a few steps towards it before she spots her Dad. He has two wrapped bundles in his hands. As she walks closer, she recognises them as panini. Her stomach lurches – her earlier plan to grab something to eat completely forgotten about.

“Who’s the boy?” Will asks with a small smile. Underneath his sunglasses, she knows that his eyes are bright and teasing. He hands her one of the paper-wrapped panino. It’s still warm.

 She unwraps the top of it, taking a bite of the warm sandwich. With a large mouthful of food that her Papa would scold her for, she manages to hiss at him: “ _Vaffanculo_.”

Will doesn’t stop the roaring laugh that erupts out of him.

 

* * *

 

 

They spend a few hours in the gallery, mingling with other people who have flocked to it to see the statues and paintings that line every corridor and hallway. They stop at one, and spend most of their time at it. When they first arrived here, one of the first places that Hannibal took her to was to the gallery. He sat her down on a simple bench opposite one of Botticelli’s works, and stayed there for the better part of an hour. Will joined them eventually, sitting on the other side of Emilia.

Framed by both of her fathers, they told her about the painting, about their past lives in Italy, and about anything else she thought to ask of.

Now, she smiles at the painting. It has a wall of tourists in front of it now: barely visible through their heads and flashing cameras. But she doesn’t need to see it. She could sketch it from memory if asked to.

“Emilia has something to tell you, Hannibal,” Will’s voice suddenly cuts through the murmur of crowds chattering amongst themselves. The walk home is nice, she thinks: the sun is setting, casting a deep orange hue over the city. Will and Hannibal are walking close together, their joined hands swinging faintly between them. Emilia walks at the other side of Hannibal, looking around at the city beginning to turn in for the evening. The tips of her ears burn at what Will says.

The look she shoots him is withering and full of fire. “No, I don’t.”

Will’s smirk only grows. “It would seem that our daughter has a boyfriend,” Will says, leaning into stage-whisper the words into Hannibal’s ear. He interlinks one of his arms with Hannibal, drawing the other man even closer.

Hannibal raises an eyebrow at her. Other than that, his expression is unreadable. “Since when?”

“Since _never_!” she almost squawks. Will’s chuckling laughter at the other side of Hannibal almost spurs her to fling her bag at him. “He’s just someone that Dr Santoro mentors too. That’s all.” She directs the last part at Will: eyes narrowing in seriousness. She spends the rest of the walk home trying to ignore Will’s prodding questions about who Marco is. Hannibal tries to stop him, but the faint, curling smile at the corner of his lip shows that he really isn’t putting much effort in.

When they reach home, Emilia almost bolts for her room. “Dinner will be at six,” Hannibal calls after her as she disappears around a wall. He gives Will an unimpressed look as the other man finishes hanging his light jacket by the door and walks past him.

Will chuckles. “She’s a teenager now, Hannibal,” he replies over his shoulder. They both walk into the penthouse, through their living room and into the kitchen. “If I can’t have my ‘embarrassing-dad’ fun now, then why can I?”

It gets a small chuckle out of Hannibal. He starts pulling out a collection of copper pots and pans, popping them on to gas-burners by the oven. Will takes a seat on the other side of the large, marble worktop. He likes watching Hannibal work. The rippling of muscle in his forearms always draws Will’s attention. As he watches Hannibal prepare dinner, slicing and chopping vegetables, Will casts a quick glance over to the two dogs patiently lying in their beds. Their heads tilt slightly. When they both realise they aren’t getting any scraps off of either man, they sigh and go back to sleep.

The domesticity of their lives never fails to leave his thoughts. Will’s heart almost constricts with how _lovely_ most moments of their lives seem to be. He must have retreated into his mind for a moment, because when he blinks, Hannibal is placing a glass of red wine in front of him. He leans down and presses a kiss to Will’s temple: warm lips lingering there for a moment. “I love you,” Hannibal mumbles against Will’s skin.

Warmth spreads through his body as a trembling shiver wracks through his frame. Will tilts his head up and catches Hannibal’s lips with his own. He brings his hand up to the back of Hannibal’s head, curling his fingers into the man’s hair. A soft moan escapes his lips-

“Jesus, really?!”

Emilia’s shout makes Hannibal pull away.

She rolls the sleeves of her shirt up to her elbows: almost mirroring what Hannibal has done to his own. She puts a hand on her hip, and waves her other hand flippantly at the worktop. “Do you really have to do that where food is being cooked?!”

Will brings the rim of his glass up to his lips. “Christ, she sounds just like you,” he eyes Hannibal, before taking a swig of wine.

 

* * *

 

 

Dr Santoro’s office is in a townhouse in the middle of the city. Their tutorial sessions usually take part in her home, but there are occasions where Santoro will gather his students together for discussions about what they’re learning.

That’s where she sees Marco again. The boy waves slightly awkwardly at her when she steps into Santoro’s office. The room is reminiscent of her Papa’s old office in Munich: its interior is mainly comprised of dark wood, with shelves packed with books lining three of the walls. For their ‘classes’, Santoro grabs any chair he can find throughout his home and puts them in his office, forming a circle in the middle of the room. Piles of worn, leather-bound books with fraying pieces of paper peeking out of them are also on the floor.

“It’s like a labyrinth in here,” Emilia comments, taking a seat in one of the plush armchairs. Its leather is worn and the seat sinks slightly when she sits in it.

Marco barks a laugh. “Does that make Santoro Daedalus?”

A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “I think he’s more like the Minotaur.”

Marco’s laugh is lost as more of Santoro’s students start coming into the office. Emilia looks at them: most have known each other for large portions of their lives. They’ve all come from distinguished families either within Florence, or other regions of Italy. They have a connection with each other. Emilia can’t help but think she was thrown into the middle of it: like being pushed into a shark tank and being told to swim.

Marco shuffles slightly closer to her, but keeping enough space between them to not warrant a glare. “I’m sorry for being awkward yesterday,” he says lowly. A girl from the other side of the room catches his gaze, but drops it in favour of talking to another girl: just as made up as she is. He lets out a sigh. “I’ve known these people for years. And they’re so boring,” he laughs at the last word. He watches her carefully from a curtain of curls that have flopped on to his forehead, slightly covering his eyes. “You’re new.”

“I’ve been here for a while, Marco,” Emilia says as tonelessly as she can.

Marco shrugs his shoulder. “Yeah, I know. But you never come to these things,” he gestures to the room, “When Santoro started waxing poetic about his new history and literature student, I wanted to meet you properly.”

Santoro enters the room, a few books tucked underneath his arm, and waves to the room. Quickly, everyone falls into their seats and takes out a notepad and pen. Emilia goes to do the same.

“Can we grab gelato after this?” Marco asks suddenly. It’s almost enough for Emilia to drop her notepad and pen from her hands. She looks up at the boy, giving him a hard glare. He doesn’t seem fazed by it. “Just gelato. That’s all. There’s a place by the _Duomo_ on _Via dei Servi_.”

She regards Marco for a moment. Santoro has taken a seat in his usual spot and started a conversation about the complexities of Greek mythology already. His voice fades out as she thinks about Marco’s request.

“Sure,” she says, sitting back in her chair, flipping open to a blank page, and ignoring the boy smiling brightly beside her.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun is warm on Will’s face as he sits silently on a small chair on the balcony. The house is quiet with Emilia gone for the day. He casts a quick look down at his watch. 5:00pm. She should have been home a while ago. There was a point in Will’s life with her where that would have concerned him. As she’s gotten old, and proven herself throughout the years, the worry that would have plagued his mind has slunk off to a quiet place within him. He’ll worry if he doesn’t see her by sundown. Until then, he’s content to sit here on the balcony, sun on his face, listening to the faint snores of dogs by his feet.

There’s the sound of faint footsteps behind him. He doesn’t startle when Hannibal stands behind him, leaning down slightly to drape himself against Will’s back. Taking a deep breath, Will smiles faintly. _He’s just stepped out of a shower_ , he thinks.

“Where’s your daughter?” Hannibal says softly, moving his hands to Will’s chest.

Will rolls his eyes, but hums when the buttons of his dress-shirt slowly start being undone by nimble fingers. “Why is it that whenever she does something you don’t approve of, she becomes _my_ daughter?”

Hannibal’s lips brush along the other man’s neck, casting a shiver down Will’s frame. The sounds of the city slowly fade away. Up on the balcony, they can watch the courtyard and the streets, but no one down below can see them. The balcony is only visible if you knew it was there.

That’s mostly why Will doesn’t stop Hannibal from slipping his hand beneath his shirt to run along his warm skin.

He tunes into one voice, though, fluttering up from the courtyard. Will’s eyes slowly blink open, and he looks down on to the courtyard. He smiles faintly when he spots Emilia. Beside her is the boy he saw yesterday. They’re walking together through the courtyard, veering through pockets of people walking home from work.

He shoots her a sly look: one that she subtly flips him off for.

“Honestly, I don’t know how you liken her to me, Will,” Hannibal mumbles against Will’s neck, pulling away with a sigh knowing that Emilia will be home soon. “She has numerous traits of yours that are just abhorrent.”

“She hasn’t slammed a door in weeks,” Will says casually. He turns in his seat and faces Hannibal. “You always complained that she slammed doors.”

Hannibal’s gaze is down on the courtyard. Will turns and looks too. Both Emilia and the boy are standing a bit away from the doorway to their apartment block. Hannibal frowns slightly at how close they’re standing.

Will’s hand is suddenly in Hannibal’s. “So, this is the _boyfriend_ , I suppose?” Hannibal’s tone is curt. Will’s laugh is muffled against Hannibal’s neck when he leans forward and nips at his ear.

“I was joking, but I suppose,” he replies. He tugs Hannibal closer to him, draping his arms comfortably around the other man’s neck. “Promise me not to skin him,” he mumbles against Hannibal’s lips.

Hannibal hums after a moment, pressing his forehead gently against Will’s. “I’ll try to retain myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me @ Emilia: Honey, you got a big storm coming. 
> 
> [Jokes on me, because Ireland is snowed under right now. I'm writing and posting this from an igloo.]
> 
> (Also the FCs for Emilia & Marco are Alba August & Timothee Chalamet because Fight Me)


	15. Florence, Italy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When everything seems to be going well, start being prepared for the worst.

She’s always shocked at how different she looks. Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she spots herself in the mirror of her vanity from across the room. Staring back at her is a sixteen-year-old, brown-haired girl. The baby-fat that had stubbornly clung to her face for years has finally faded away: leaving her with a defined oval-shaped face with faint cheekbones. She remembers dying her hair in an airport: the stench of the dye almost stinging her senses.

But they’ve all adapted and changed. Papa’s hair is longer now and mostly grey, brushed back but a couple of strands always fall down on to his face. Dad almost shaved his head. His curls are gone, and all that’s left is very short hair, with greying strands along the sides of his head. She smiles faintly at a memory that surfaces: her handing a plastic bowl of dye over to him, only to have it swatted away with an unimpressed glare.

She’s shocked out of her trance when her phone buzzes. She looks around at her bed: covered in opened books and notes scattered over the bedspread. She rifles through them and finds her phone, frowning slightly when a message pops up on screen.

_Gelato? :D_

Marco asked for her number a few days ago. She remembers the light blush that settled on his high cheekbones. In the back of her mind, she knows that there was nothing behind the meaning. She didn’t have any social media (which he didn’t find odd at all), and just asked for a way to keep in touch with her when they aren’t in Santoro’s office.

She unlocks her phone and quickly taps out a reply.

_Santoro is coming over soon. I think he’s staying to have dinner afterwards. Sorry._

It’s a few minutes before her phone buzzes again.

_Bribing the tutor with food? Good idea. I’ll make sure Nonna makes dinner the next time he comes over lol_

She leans back against the nest of pillows. _I’m not **bribing** him. He just likes my father, that’s all_ , she types. The smell of dinner being cooked seeps underneath the crack of her door. Her stomach growls.

Her phone buzzes. _Suuurrreee...whatever you say, Sofia._

The name almost burns her eyes. She’s spent a few days with Marco, just wandering through Florence and talking with him. They always grab gelato – something that’s now a tradition of theirs after either of their tutoring sessions has ended, or just whenever they see each other out. Every time he says her name – her _fake_ name – her heart skips a beat. A harrowing, cold feeling lingers, dropping to her stomach as he continues on discussing Greek mythology or the lack of good coffee places within walking distance from Santoro’s office.

She isn’t stupid. She knows she can’t tell him her real name. It’s taken too long to get used to answering to Sofia Ricci. Sometimes she wonders if he’s friends with Emilia Graham-Lecter, or Sofia Ricci.

There’s a soft knock on her door, but it’s almost loud enough for her to drop her phone on to her bed. She tightens her grip on it, locks it, and clears his throat. “Come in.”

The door cracks open and Will sticks his head in. “Dr Santoro is here,” he says, eying the mess of notes and books on her bed. When he looks up at her, a frown settles on his brow. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she answers, albeit a bit too quickly, “why would you think something’s wrong?”

The frown doesn’t budge from Will’s face. “Uh huh,” he says slowly. He gestures to the mess on her bed, “well, tidy this up and meet Santoro in the study.”

He closes the door slightly, before opening it again. “If you manage to last the two hours with Santoro talking about God-knows-what, I’ll let you meet that boyfriend of yours afterwards.”

A heated blush creeps on to Emilia’s cheeks. “ _Stronzo!_ ” Emilia hisses, picking up a study-guide Santoro gave her weeks ago and flinging it at the door. Will’s quickly closes it, so the guide just thuds against the wooden frame and falls to the ground. The sound of his sharp laugh is muffled through the door as he walks down the hallway.

 

* * *

 

 

Almost two hours later, Emilia almost cries when there’s a sharp knock on the study’s door. _Thank fucking God_ , she thinks. There’s only so many ways Austen’s _Persuasion_ can be analysed before she starts wanting to rip her eyes out. The novelty of being tutored wore off months ago. It’s tedious now.

Both Emilia and Santoro turn to the study door. It opens and she almost sags in her chair when she sees her Papa. He dries his hands in a cloth. “Dinner is almost ready,” he smiles. It’s one of his smiles that Emilia isn’t quite sure is genuine. He flashes it at dinner guests and people who they’ve shared spaces with, but he’s also smiled that smile at her and Will.

“ _Splendido_ , Dr Ricci,” Santoro smiles brightly, clapping his hands together. He turns to Emilia and gestures to the stack of novels on the study’s desk. “You can put these away now, Sofia. We’re done for today.”

She almost cries at the words. Quickly gathering the books and her own notes into her arms, she stands up quickly and brushes past Hannibal on the way out. The murmured conversation between Hannibal and Santoro fill the hallway as she dashes to her room. She uses her foot to nudge open her bedroom door, flinging everything in her arms on to her bed.

Dinner with Santoro is always eventful. Emilia returns to the dining room and takes her usual spot on Hannibal’s left-hand side. Will sits opposite her on Hannibal’s right, flashing her a coy smile. She knows exactly what he’s thinking. Leaning forward in her chair, she hisses: “I don’t want to meet up with Marco, actually. I told him that I was spending dinner with my _darling_ family.”

“Marco? Is that his name?” he tilts his head, unfolding a napkin and placing it on his lap. His smirk doesn’t budge.

Santoro joins them at the table, sitting beside Emilia. “How are you, _Signore_? Despite visiting your home to tutor Sofia I never quite get the chance to see you.”

“I’m doing well, thank you,” Will smiles graciously. His gaze flickers over to Emilia. “How’s she getting along, actually?”

Santoro smiles brightly at the girl. “One of the most opinionated _signorine_ I’ve ever taught,” he says. A laugh rumbles in his throat. “Which is very good!”

Will’s smirk turns into something warmer. He nods at Emilia. “Good, I’m glad to hear it.”

She blushes slightly at the attention, almost sighing with relief when Hannibal enters the dining room. He has a platter of spaghetti topped with a deep-red bolognese sauce. The platter is put in the middle of them, among baskets of bread rolls already dotted around the table. The familiar smell of the dish fills the room.

Hannibal takes his place at the head of the table, gesturing to the dinner sprawled out on the table. “ _Buon appetito_.”

Emilia is silent throughout most of the dinner, with Hannibal, Will, and Santoro talking among themselves. She plucks a warm bread roll from the basket. Cutting it in half, her ears tune into the conversation coming to a natural lull.

Before silence even has the chance to settle over them, Will casts a quick glance over to Santoro. “Apologies for asking, Dr Santoro, but do you happen to have a student named Marco?”

Emilia almost chokes on a mouthful of bread.

“He would be around Sofia’s age: tall, skinny, black hair?”

Santoro thinks about it for a minute, swiping a piece of bread through the ragù and eating it with a satisfied hum. “Marco Alfonsi? Ah, yes! A very smart young man: such an intense interest in Greek and Roman mythologies.”

Hannibal arches an eyebrow. “A student of the classics, is he?”

Santoro nods, twirling pasta expertly around his fork. “Sophocles, Aristotle, Plato, Herodotus,” the man lists, nodding approvingly at each name, “the young man knows them all!”

Hannibal almost seems impressed. Emilia stares down at her plate: wishing for the world itself to just combust.

“Marco has been my student for years,” Santoro finishes his plate, wiping the last of the sauce clean off the pristine white plate. He tilts his head at Will. “Why do you ask, _Signore_?”

 _Please kill me_ , Emilia thinks, the grip on her cutlery only growing tighter.

Will pauses, before shrugging a shoulder. “No particular reason. Sofia said that she met him during one of your communal tutoring sessions. I was just wondering.”

Santoro looks over at her. “Yes, that’s right! The two often sit by each other. It’s a good thing, Signore, don’t worry. Marco has always been an odd boy: a nervous little thing. It’s nice to see him making friends, finally.”

Hannibal hums, finishing off his own dinner. He glances quickly over to Emilia, noting her posture. “Now, _caro_ , I’m sure that Emilia’s private life would like to stay private, and not the subject of dinner gossip,” he directs at Will.

The other man flashes him a smile that’s all teeth. “I only tease, _amore_.” He brushes his foot along Hannibal’s underneath the table.

She knows that he’s joking. Deep down, she knows.

But it doesn’t stop her thinking about tossing her last bread roll at his head.

Dinner is cleared away within moments and Santoro lingers just long enough to indulge Will in a glass of wine in the living room. Emilia wanders into the kitchen, taking a place beside Hannibal at the sink. “Do you need any help?” she says, nodding to the stack of dishes and pans.

Hannibal smiles warmly at her. “No, _dovana_ , I’m quite capable of doing these myself.”

A taunt about his age is on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it. The nipping banter exists between her and Will. Hannibal engages in it sometimes, but mostly just casts disapproving looks at both of them: as if they were both teenagers fighting among themselves.

She picks up a dry dishtowel anyway and starts drying some plates. Will and Santoro’s voices are muffled as they drift in from the next room. Once they’ve depleted half a bottle of wine between them, Santoro usually leaves and starts his journey home. The night is still warm outside, as a fresh breeze carrying a little heat blows into the kitchen from the balcony. Hannibal is silent as he continues washing dishes, stacking them to Emilia to dry.

“So,” he says after a while, “this Marco-”

“- _Please don’t_ ,” she mumbles a reply, stacking some dishes nearby. Her choice of Lithuanian makes him pause for a split second. “ _He’s a friend. That’s all.”_

Hannibal watches her out of the corner of his eye. “ _I realise that the life we lead has challenges: namely that of friends and relationships_.”

Emilia opens her mouth to interject, but Hannibal presses on.

“ _It’s the name, isn’t it? Sofia, instead of Emilia_ ,” Hannibal’s voice is quiet. Neither man in the next room will be able to hear them anyway, as the familiar stringed tunes of Vivaldi float through the hallways. Emilia continues drying the plates, focusing on one stubborn piece of food that has dried into the plate. She hears Hannibal sigh. “ _I know what it’s like, darling. I know how lonely it can appear to be. But if this boy is making you happy, in any way, chase after it. It may be fleeting and uncertain, but chase it anyway_.”

She blinks back tears. She puts down the last plate, stacking them neatly on the worktop. “Do you want me to put them away?” she asks simply.

Hannibal sighs and shakes his head. “No, I’ll do that.” He pulls her into a hug: his arms linger around her. “Don’t mind your father’s teasing,” he says, pressing his lips against her hairline. Her eyelids flicker shut. “If it bothers you, I’ll have a word with him.”

She huffs a dry laugh. “No, no, it’s fine.” At his unchanged look, she rolls her eyes. “I promise, Papa. It’s fine.”

He kisses her forehead again before ushering her out of the kitchen. She wanders down the hallway of the penthouse. She hears the front door opening and closing, signalling that Santoro has decided to go home. Without him there, her shoulders slump. The novelty of having a tutor is _really_ wearing off.

She slips into her room, smiling at the two dogs sleeping peacefully in their beds. When her tutor is over, they’re corralled into one part of the house. It’s not that Santoro doesn’t like dogs, or is allergic, but Hannibal preferred having both dogs separated from Emilia while she studies. She gets it. The dogs are distracting.

With the mess of notes and books shoved from her bed and on to her floor, she slumps heavily on to her bed. Searching through the sheets, she feels the familiar shape of her phone. She plucks it out of its nest and unlocks it. She isn’t bothered by the blank screen. No messages. She didn’t expect any. No one apart from her family or Marco has her number.

Something winds through her chest. Against her ribcage, she can feel her heart starting to flutter. She taps at her messages, and texts one out quickly.

_Hey, are you still up for getting gelato??_

While she waits for a reply, the air in her room seems to thicken with tension. She doesn’t understand why. What Hannibal said to her in the kitchen lingers in her mind.

Her phone buzzes. A smile spreads across her face when she opens the message.

_Sure! Can I meet you outside the Uffizi Gallery in half an hour? Is that okay??_

She looks up at the door to her room. It’s still light outside. The summer days have rolled in, and the days are starting to stretch out a bit. She bites the inside of her cheek.

_That’s perfect, see you there :)_

She types out the message, sends it, and shoves her phone into her jeans pocket. She leaps up from the bed, rifling through the piles of clothes on her floor to find a light jacket. The two dogs sleeping in her room perk up at the movement. They watch her closely as she finds a pair of converse shoes. While she laces them up, she looks around her room, thinking about what to bring. She grabs a canvas bag with her purse and sketchpad in. She thinks about leaving the sketchpad behind, seeing no reason to bring it. She thinks against it.

The dogs are wearing looks that are far too similar to ones her fathers would wear. “You’re both as bad as them,” she mutters. Both dogs tilt their heads. Happy that she has everything she needs, she throws the strap of her bag over herself, and quickly strides down the hallway. Dante follows her, claws clicking rhythmically against the floorboards of the hallway. When they get to the living room, she pauses at the door.

Her fathers are sitting merged together on a couch by a roaring fire. Hannibal’s reading an old volume of Leopardi poetry. He lowers it slightly when he spots Emilia at the doorway. Will’s resting his head against Hannibal’s shoulder, a small glass of scotch sitting comfortably in one of his hands. He doesn’t move for a second, and Emilia thinks he’s asleep, but eventually, he raises his head and looks over at her too.

“I’m going out,” she says slightly awkwardly, buttoning up her jacket. She pauses. “Is that okay?”

A lazy smirk curls along Will’s lip. Before he says anything, Hannibal jumps in. “That’s alright, _dovana_. If you need anything, just call either of us.”

The look Hannibal wears on his face tells her that she has to call _him_.

She nods, before turning on her heels and leaving the penthouse.

 

* * *

 

 

Emilia tries to muffle a laugh against the back of her hand. “Wait, what?!” she giggles.

Marco shrugs his shoulder: a bright smile is on his face. “I don’t know, Fia!”

“How can you confuse Austen for Bronte?” she almost gapes, “they’re so different!”

Marco places a hand on his chest, looking mock-offended. “ _Dio santo_ , not all of us are literary scholars! No-one corrected me: I spoke for what seemed like an hour about how innovative Austen was. I still remember the giggling from the others.”

“I’m sorry,” Emilia giggles, trying to school her expression into a neutral one. “I shouldn’t laugh.”

“No! No, you shouldn’t!” Marco doesn’t look at all offended. He’s laughing even harder than she is. She turns back to her gelato as it starts to melt slightly down the side of the cone. Her smile won’t budge off of her face, no matter how hard she tries to move it. They grabbed their gelato from their usual spot. The woman behind the counter – a middle-aged woman with bright, crimson-coloured hair and tattooed arms – smiled brightly when they walked in.

The _Piazza della Signoria_ isn’t as crowded as it would be. The evening rolling in pulls people either home or into restaurants for dinner.

“I like it when it’s like this,” Marco says, gesturing to the emptied street. She looks back out at it. The cobblestone street is actually visible, not covered completely with crowds of tourists walking to the gallery. It’s not completely empty: a few odd people wander into few, but they look at the gallery, or the faces of the buildings lined along the street, and move on.

Emilia hums an agreement, finishing off her cone. She wipes her hands with a napkin. “So, what did you and Santoro get up to?” Marco asks, finishing his own cone.

She shrugs. “What we usually do: argue over the meaning of novels, threaten each other with shoes or the nearest object we could grab. And then we had dinner.”

Marco chuckles. “I’d like to be at those. All Santoro does at mine is go on and on about philosophers and how they’re right: end of discussion.”

It earns an odd look out of Emilia. “Well that’s bullshit,” she says. At Marco’s bark of a laugh, she continues. “It is! He’s always waxing on about how it’s important to not take anything as it is. To study literature, you need to study history, philosophy, sociology. If you read something and just said ‘Yeah, okay Mary Shelley, that’s a simple story about reanimation gone wrong!’ then nothing would come from it!”

Marco watches her, eyes trained on hers. “Then, Signorina Ricci, what do you think of Shelley’s _Frankenstein_?”

Emilia thinks about it for a minute. “It could be read different ways. By writing about a creator and creation, Shelley could be talking about God, or religion. Or maybe the dominator and the dominated is about the escalating British imperialism of the time, and her critique of that?”

When she looks back to Marco, her heart skips a beat. His eyes are widened slightly, a faint smile tugging the corner of his thin lip upward. “Well,” he breathes, “I can see why Santoro keeps fighting with you.”

“ _Fottiti_ ,” she shoves at his shoulder, rolling her eyes.

Her phone buzzes. Fishing it out of her pocket, she frowns at the message that pops up.

 _When are you coming home?_ It’s from her Dad. She bites her lip, unlocking her phone and typing out a quick reply.

 _I don’t know yet, but I’m safe. I’m at the Piazza della Signoria_.

Marco watches her text. “Parents?”

She nods. “Yeah, it’s fine though,” she flashes him a smile once she puts her phone back in her jacket pocket. “Just Dad being a worrier.”

The look he gives her is warm. “Hardly the worst thing,” he shrugs. He’s right, she knows. Her Dad has always worried about her. Whenever she isn’t in his sight, he worries. Although now that she’s sixteen, it should have worn off of him by now. If anything, she thinks, it’s only getting worse. For all the biting harsh banter they have together, there’s a fatherly love behind all of it.

Marco nudges her shoulder with his. “I can bring you home now, if you want?”

The question, and the look on his face, is genuine. She thinks about it for a minute, before she shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. I’ll go home eventually, but...” words suddenly can’t come to her. She knows what she wants to say, but there’s nothing in her head, or throat, to carry the message.

Marco seems to understand though. They continue to sit on the steps of a marble statue, talking idly about anything and everything. When the sun starts to creep down, hiding behind the buildings that line the street, it starts getting cold. Emilia shoves her hands into her jacket pockets.

It’s something that Marco notices. “Okay, I’m bringing you home,” he says definitively. As he stands up from the steps, a few joints of his crack. He stretches out his back, before putting his hand out for Emilia. “Come on, Fia. I’ll walk you home.”

She stares at his hand for a second, before slowly putting hers in his. His skin is warm. In stark contrast to the air surrounding them, his skin almost burns hers. She resists the urge to yank her hand away. “Thanks,” she says, being pulled up from the steps. She doesn’t even know how long they’ve sat there for, but she can feel it in her tense and locked joints.

A dread-like feeling blooms in her stomach when Marco’s hand leaves hers. He puts his hands into his jacket pockets, and nods towards a street. “Come on then,” he says brightly, starting to walk. She quickly falls into step alongside him. Getting home is a winding maze of streets that feed into each other. Marco keeps a conversation going as they walk.

When they reach one street, Emilia finds her eyes wandering to the wall of a building. It’s a mural, she notices, faded over time and cracked in a lot of places. Paint, and pieces of the wall, are missing too. She feels Marco stand by her side.

He regards it for a second. “I forgot about this,” he mumbles quietly, presumably to himself. Emilia looks at him, and then back at the mural.

It’s a child, she notices. A child’s head and torso surrounded by red and white roses. The child’s expression, or what time has left of it, is...lost. That’s the only word Emilia can put to it. Bright blue eyes stare out from the wall on anyone who passes. The street is small. Not a lot of people would even walk down this street, let alone view the mural.

“Do you know the Romano case?” Marco says softly. Their voices are the only noise breaking the silence of the street. It’s hidden away from the main city.

The name sounds familiar. It nips at the back of her mind. She tries sorting through memories in order to find where it might be. “I don’t think so,” she manages to say while filing through memories. Nothing comes up from Cuba, or Germany, or France.

“More than a decade ago, some rich woman’s sister went missing,” Marco explains, eyes locked on the mural, “she didn’t think anything of it. They didn’t have a close relationship, especially after the sister got married and had a child with someone the family didn’t approve of.”

Emilia tilts her head, taking in more of the mural. The child’s face is pudgy, shades slightly with pink. Golden hair frames the face, and fans out against the background, mixing into the roses.

A frown settles on Emilia’s brow.

“Still, the woman went to the police, saying that her sister was missing. She went sailing with her husband and child. They think there was someone else there, but no one is sure.”

Coldness seeps into Emilia’s veins. It crawls through her body. _Oh God_...

Marco sighs sadly. “I don’t know what came from it, but the woman was very vocal about no one being able to find her sister. Or her daughter. I don’t know much about it. I was six, I think.”

 _Oh God. Oh GOD_.

The child stares back at Emilia.

She swallows a thick lump forming in her throat. “Did she make this? The woman? Did she paint this?”

“No. She lived in Naples,” he explains, taking a step towards the mural. “But the story caught on, I guess. Someone here sympathised enough to paint this for her.”

Emilia stares at it. She stares at the old version of herself. A crack in the building’s wall runs through the child’s face. Sections of the paint have flecked off and worn away over the years.  

A tear escapes her eye and trickles down her cheek. Everything seems to be slipping away, layer by layer. She recognises the panic starting to wind its way through her veins.

She reaches out and catches Marco’s hand in hers.

“Christ, are you okay?” Arms are suddenly supporting her. She isn’t falling. Her feet are too rooted into the pavement for her to move anywhere. But the child still stares back at her. Her child-self stares at her.

“Fia?” Marco brings a hand to her face, tilting her head slightly so that he can look at her in the eyes. “Sofia?” _His skin is so fucking warm_ , she thinks. It's grounding.

“I’m fine,” she gasps, willing the panic to _fuck off_. It stops. It stops somewhere in her body, and starts slinking away. When she can regulate her breathing, she manages to tear her eyes from the girl’s and to Marco’s. “I’m fine,” she breathes around the words, “just...just bring me home, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marco Alfonsi is Too Precious and I will (try my best) not to touch him. I promise.
> 
> Also, PLOT. And they said I couldn't freeform this entire fic. Ha!
> 
> [Shoutout to my friend Blaithin who, when I spoke to her of Marco in this fic, she responded with: "Sweet merciful God, don't make him and Emilia secret-surprise-siblings or something. Please."
> 
> Comments & Kudos gladly welcomed!


	16. Florence, Italy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fallout from the previous night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is late. College is being a major pain right now. That, coupled with writer's block, meant that this was an actual pain to start, let alone finish lol.
> 
> This chapter is just Feels, to be quite honest. Plot is nearing. I promise.

They haven’t heard from her, but that’s to be expected with age, he supposes. Hannibal’s eyes flick up from his novel to the clock hung over the fireplace in front of them. She should have been home thirty minutes ago, he notes. He makes a point of not worrying: no matter how hard he tries, worry ignites a physical reaction. His muscles with contract, tensing, and disturbing the figure pressed against him.

Will lounges against his side; head comfortably tucked underneath Hannibal’s jaw, nose buried into his neck. Vivaldi plays softly in the background and the dying embers of their fire are slowly receding into the ashes they’ve left behind. He had been following Hannibal’s novel, but gave up when his eyelids began to droop. “Go to bed,” Hannibal says softly, turning his head slightly to press a kiss against Will’s temple.

He buries his nose further into Hannibal’s neck. He smells faintly of the new aftershave Emilia bought him for his birthday just gone. “Too comfy,” Will sighs. The room is the right side of warm, with minimal light. How Hannibal can even read in this light, Will has no idea, but he glances up at the other man. He laughs when he sees Hannibal arching an eyebrow at him. “Besides, would you be joining me?”

Hannibal returns to his novel. “I’ll wait for Emilia to return,” he hums. The arm he has around Will’s back tightens, bringing the other closer to his body. “ _Then_ I will join you.”

Will huffs. Settling back against Hannibal, he can feel sleep tugging gently at him. Hannibal’s fingers idly tracing patterns along his spine don’t help him stay awake. He’s almost pulled under when he hears it.

Short sharp knocks against the door of their home.

Hannibal bristles slightly. Emilia has her own key. Even if late returning home, she always lets herself in. Why would she knock? Will disentangles himself from Hannibal, who places his novel on the coffee table in front of him and rises slowly.

Will is out of the couch, all remnants of tiredness chased out of his body by growing adrenaline. He strides over to the fire and unhooks the poker. With a hooked end made of solid steel, it’ll do, he thinks as he watches Hannibal slowly stalk down the hallway towards the door.

At the door, he peers out of the looking glass in their door.

His eyebrows rise at what he sees.

Emilia and Marco: standing a bit too close together for his liking. His gaze falls down to their sides. Her arm is interlinked around his, keeping him close to her.

He unlocks the door and opens it. “Sofia,” his gaze instantly goes to his daughter. He’s careful with her assumed name. His gaze flickers over to the boy next to her.

“You must be Marco Alfonsi, I presume?”

Returning to looking at his daughter, he frowns slightly. Even in the dim lighting of the hallway separating the elevator and their door, he makes out how pale she is.

Marco stretches out his free hand. “Doctor Ricci,” he greets the man. They shake hands. “I’m sorry that it’s late. We were walking out by the _Piazza della Signoria_ , and I think Sofia had a panic attack.”

Hannibal’s careful not to snap his head over to Marco. Instead, he regards him silently for a moment. “A panic attack?”

Marco looks at Emilia. She’s staring down, unblinking, at the ground between them. Her hair, out of its usual ponytail, falls around her face. “I think so, sir. She stayed conscious though, so I’m not sure...” The boy trails off.

Hannibal reaches out slowly, taking Emilia’s free hand in his. Her skin is clammy, he notices, and slightly cold around her fingertips. Her breath is measured now – deep and timed carefully, just as he taught her. Emilia’s gaze moves from the ground to her hand in her father’s. “Papa,” she croaks. Marco disentangles his arm from Emilia’s, letting her go over to her father. His expression is slightly pained as Hannibal wraps his arms around his daughter in a firm hug.

Marco looks down at the scuffed heads of his boots. “My sister used to get them all the time, sir. Panic attacks, that is. I know what they look like, and Sofia seemed to be on the edge of one.” When he looks back up, Hannibal is watching him carefully over Emilia’s head.

Hannibal hears footsteps behind him. Will keeps to the shadows of their hallway, but Hannibal can make out his confused look. Hannibal cups Emilia’s face with his hands, brushing away any stray strands of hair that cling to her face. “Go inside with your dad and get ready for bed, _dovana_ ,” he says gently. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Emilia nods, casting a quick look back to Marco. “Thank you,” she whispers, eyes watering slightly. Marco nods firmly, shoving his hands into his pockets. She disappears into the apartment, into Will’s arms as he leads her into the shadows of the hallway.

Marco’s hands fidget slightly in his pockets. “I better get home, sir, my _nonna_ will have my head if I’m not home soon,” he tries to smile, but it’s weak and flickers away quickly at Hannibal’s unmoving, plain expression. As the teenager turns away, he pauses when he hears the man speak.

“Thank you for bringing her home safely, Marco,” Hannibal says, measured. As soon as the words are out, and Marco has registered them, Hannibal steps back into his home and closes the door with a _click_.

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as she’s in her room, her legs threaten to cave out from underneath her. She stumbles slightly, crossing the threshold of her doorway, but strong arms keep her from crumbling.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Will’s voice is in her ear as he helps her to sit on the edge of her bed. Once settled, Will lowers himself on to his haunches in front of her. Her hands rest in her lap, still and unmoving. Not a tremor in sight, he notes. Looking at her eyes, they’re unfocused, slowly regarding the room around her. Slowly, and making sure that she knows he’s doing it, Will reaches out to take her hands in his.

“Talk to me, baby,” he urges her, keeping his voice soft. “What happened?”

There’s a weighted pause between them. Eventually, she opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. She snaps it shut, shaking her head with a deep-set frown etched into her brow.

“You’re safe, everything is okay,” he shushes her when a sob squeaks out. He rises up, ignoring his cracking joints, to sit on the bed beside her. “Whatever it is that has you so frightened won’t hurt you. You’re with your father and me now.”

Movement in the corner of his eye distracts him slightly. Hannibal comes into view through the doorway into her room. He rests his side against the doorframe. “Is what Marco said true, _dovana_?” he asks simply. “Did you have a panic attack?”

Will’s head whips back around to her. “Oh my baby,” he reaches up to card his fingers through her hair. She’s shaking her head.

“No,” she manages to get out. With one word out, others follow in a waterfall of information. “I thought I was going to – I felt the aura you always talk about. My fingers and toes went numb, and I couldn’t feel my legs, and my heart wanted to burst out of my chest, and I felt it – I _felt it creeping towards me-_ ”

Her voice cracks and a sob wracks through her body. Will rubs her back, waiting for it to pass.

“Romano.” The name is carried through her cries. Tears stream down her cheeks. “We were walking, and we saw this mural, and it’s me – it’s _me_ – _someone looked for me_ -”

Will brings her to him. Her face goes into his chest, tears soaking through his flannel shirt. He looks over to Hannibal. The other man is stoic – his entire body schooled into neutrality. Something does crack slightly though. Will isn’t quite sure what it is.

Emilia’s arms are tight around Will’s body. He knows that when she’s lost like this, it’s a storm that needs to be weathered. So he sits with her until it passes. Hannibal slowly steps into the room, taking a seat on the other side of the girl, and rubbing gentle circles on her back.

She eventually sleeps. After the last trace of panic left her body, she had enough energy left within her to let Will dress her in something comfortable to sleep in. He gently pulls off most of her outwear, turning around to face a wall while she tiredly pulls on a sleep-shirt and shorts. When he hears the sheets of her bed shuffling, he turns back around and finds her splayed out on the top of her bed. Smiling softly, he pulls back the top few layers and eases her inside. It reminds him of when she was little – tucking her into bed when she stayed up late with them, or tried weaselling her way into spending a night squashed between him and Hannibal when a nightmare haunted her.

He leaves her bedroom door slightly ajar as he leaves, turning back around to make sure that she’s out cold for the night. The name blinks through his mind. Romano. Romano. Romano. _Romano_. Memories of that night flash through his mind: salty sea air suddenly fills his nose, and he can almost hear the waves sloshing against the hull of a boat. He reaches out and trails his fingertips along the cold surface of the hallway wall. It grounds him. He’s here now, in Florence, with his family.

 _But someone lost **their** family_ , an unhelpful voice in his mind whispers. He presses his fingertips harder against the wall, almost imprinting the spiralling, embossed pattern from the paper on his skin. _Someone is missing a family member, and they won’t forget._

He finds Hannibal in their room, standing still in front of the fireplace, arm resting against the mantelpiece. Will slowly walks up to him, wrapping his arms around the man’s middle. “Italy was always going to be dangerous, wasn’t it,” he says idly. It’s not even a question. He presses his forehead in between Hannibal’s shoulder blades. He can feel every measured breath Hannibal takes.

Eventually, the man moves, placing his hands on Will’s, which rest on his stomach and chest. “Do you regret it?”

Will frowns against Hannibal’s back. “Do I regret what?”

Hannibal is silent for a moment. “Taking her.”

Will’s blood runs cold. “I didn’t _take_ her,” he says, voice and words measured. Hannibal turns in his arms, resting his back against the edge of the mantelpiece. With Will as close as he is, he has no problem looking straight into the other man’s eyes to gauge his reactions.

“I didn’t take her. I saved her from a bloodbath.” Will frowns, leaning forward slightly so that their noses are almost touching. “And stop trying to _read me_.”

In an instant, his arms drop from Hannibal. He turns and walks away. Hannibal’s body heat is replaced with the coldness of the room, but it doesn’t stop him from roughly yanking off his clothes in place of his sleeping ones. Hannibal doesn’t move from his place at the fireplace.

“We both knew that taking her would be a risk. I suppose it would be redundant to ask if you remember that night: but do you remember what I asked you? I asked you about the parents. You assured me throughout that night that everyone on board that boat was dead. And that boat was set off into open water. But, still, something buried in my nerves and wracked them. Every single day since, I worry if someone will come looking for her. I worry that someone will come and take her away from us. We knew the risks of this life. Just as easily as you made the decision to pull us off of that cliff, we made the decision to abide by this life. She made no such decision. At first, I worried that she would leave on her own accord, when old enough. When that didn’t seem likely, I fear that some awful circumstance will happen, and it’ll tear her from us.”

Will listens to him ramble. It’s an odd thing: Hannibal Lecter _rambling_. But he does remember that night, and the days that followed. He spent them all assuring Hannibal, and himself, that it would be fine. There would be a small search for the girl, maybe, if the boat was found. Was the boat even found? Three adult bodies had been strewn across it. All of those wounds inflicted by other people – not Will. He couldn’t be connected to this. None of them could.

Emilia doesn’t look like she used to. It’s a risky business – taking photographs. But they did. Hannibal has a small collection in his desk drawers. Dating from those first weeks with her, a chubby-faced, blonde-haired, blue-eyed child smiles through those pictures. As the years have aged both him and Hannibal, they’ve changed her. She doesn’t look like that child anymore. Emilia Romano died on that boat all those years ago. Emilia Graham-Lecter is theirs. She’s here now.

Strong arms wrap around Will’s bared chest. The sleep-shirt clutched in his hand falls away on to the floor. “This will all pass,” Hannibal says, hooking his chin over Will’s shoulder. “It’ll pass, and we’ll remain. The three of us will remain together.”

Will inhales sharply, suddenly aware of his breathing.

He doesn’t even notice a tear streaming down his cheek.

 

* * *

 

 

Emilia wakes up later than she usually does. The sun is already sitting high in the sky outside of her window, casting bright light into her room. She can tell from the amount of light spilling in that it’s probably late-morning, or midday.

She rubs her hand over her face, cursing harshly when she feels the remnants of makeup still on her skin.  Memories of last night hang over her. She sits up in bed, looking around the room. It’s a mess. It’s a mess that Papa _hates_ , but never says anything about it now. She pushes heavy sheets off of her and swings her legs out.

Getting up takes more effort than she thought. She manages to get to her feet, standing upright, but has to put a hand on her bedside table when the room threatens to spin.

Her phone is buried underneath a pile of clothes. Fishing it out from her jeans’ pocket, she unlocks it and sighs.

_Marco (23:03) : Hey, I know that we said goodbye literally ten minutes ago, but I just wanted you to know that if you’re not up to it, don’t come to Santoro’s classes in the morning._

_Marco (23:05) : I don’t think anyone could stand Valentina’s preening on a normal head, let alone what you went through last night._

_Marco (23:06) : Holy shit I didn’t mean that you’re not normal. Shit. Mental illness is very common. I suppose you know that because of your father. Nice man, btw. Terrifying. But in a cool way. _

_Marco (23:07) : Wow I’m rambling. I’ll stop now. See you tomorrow (maybe). _

Her thumb hovers over CREATE MESSAGE. An amount of time passes where she doesn’t write anything. Eventually, her screen locks and it goes black. Reflected in the screen is her face – tired eyes peering back at her.

“Jesus Emmy,” she sighs. She wanders to her vanity, pulling out makeup wipes and tubs of creams and moisturisers that she’s gifted every Christmas from a friend of her parents. With everything gathered in her hands, she shuffles to her ensuite.

When she looks a bit more like herself again, she dresses in a light shirt, jeans, and converse shoes. Plucking her phone up from her bed, she unlocks her screen again. To her surprise, there’s a new message.

_Marco (12: 35) : Good morning! Or good afternoon? You know what I mean. I just wanted to check in after last night. Hope you’re feeling okay now. We can go for food later if you’re game?_

She locks her phone and shoves it into her back pocket. The hallway outside her room is quiet. Usually, when she woke up late, it would be because Papa had sent Dad to fetch her for a late breakfast. Papa always admonished her whenever she was late for a meal – but always kept her portion back to heat up later. She steps out into the hallway and makes her way to the kitchen.

She hears her fathers’ voices before she can even round the corner. There’s a conversation between the two of them, too hushed for her to make out. She steps into the kitchen, and immediately brings her arms up to cross over her chest.

They’re both by a collection of pots and pans gently simmering. The smell wafting throughout the kitchen eases her nerves slightly.

Her Dad is the one to spot her first. “Good morning,” he says. Emilia continues to shuffle into the kitchen. The breakfast bar is loaded already with plates stacked with slices of toast, bacon-wrapped eggs, sausages, and pancakes. Small glass ramekins with butter and marmalade are dotted in between. The sight of the food makes her stomach rumble.

She moves to sit beside Will, eyeing the food carefully. Once settled, she looks up at her Dad. He’s fondly smiling at her. He leans towards her slightly, shooting a quick glance over to Hannibal. “I asked your father to make your favourites this morning,” he whispers. A smile curls along her lips.

Hannibal fries off the last of the bacon before transferring it to the last free plate on the bar. He gestures to the food, and as soon as she has his apparent permission to start, Emilia grabs her cutlery and starts gathering food for her own plate. Within seconds, her plate is piled high.

“How are you feeling today, _dovana_?” Hannibal asks once he’s seated himself on the other side of the bar.

When her plate is practically overflowing with food, she looks up at her father. “Okay,” she answers simply. Because, when she does an internal check of her head, it’s true. Hannibal doesn’t seem convinced though. She cuts up a pancake into bite-sized pieces. “ _Can we not speak about such things at the table, Papa_?” she fires at him in Lithuanian. Hannibal’s eyes widen slightly.

Will huffs. “I have no idea what you said, baby, but it must have been savage,” he smiles around a slice of bacon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Couple of Things:  
> 1) Very very very very VERY brief mention of (who I kinda wanna be) Alana and Margot. Did anyone spot it?  
> 2) I have Plans for one Emilia Graham-Lecter. It'll be badass. Don't worry about it. Promise.  
> 3) Hannibal won't lay a finger on Marco or I SWEAR TO GOD HANNI I'LL-
> 
> Tumblr: yourqueenforayear.tumblr.com
> 
> Pop by for a chat or to see my eventual descent into madness.


	17. Florence, Italy

_PHARMACEUTICAL HEIRESS PLEADS WITH DISTRICT POLICE FOR ANSWERS: Romano matriarch promises handsome reward for information on her missing sister and niece_.

Will scans his eyes over the article, drumming his fingers on the mahogany wood of Hannibal’s desk. The other man stands by the fireplace. “Have you found anything?” he says a bit dismissively, watching the beginning sparks of the fire slowly ignite into faint flames.  

Will doesn’t take his eyes off of the laptop’s screen. “Giovanna Romano,” he says in a flat voice, “heiress to a pharmaceutical company that went into arrears a couple of years ago. Apparently, she spent a large chunk of her inheritance on searching for her sister. She’s living in Naples, the last anyone heard.”

Hannibal looks over to Will. “Is she still alive?”

Will scans back over the article. “It says that she is, but this is seven years old,” Will says, reaching up to take off his glasses. He catches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Tell me again why we’re even looking into this?”

Moving away from the fireplace, Hannibal slowly strides over to Will. “Because,” he starts, “we want to be sure that life hasn’t been breathed into this story since then.”

Will sits back into his chair – Hannibal’s chair. The soft leather gives way against his back. His office reflects pieces of his past ones – the colour scheme here is brighter than the others, but with dark bookshelves stacked with leather tomes, a large, black marble hearth taking up the majority of one wall, and dark wooden furniture scattered throughout, it still seems like a space Hannibal thrives in. Hannibal eventually reaches his desk, sitting on the corner of it – a corner that hasn’t been covered in scattered pages of paper that Will has hastily taken notes in. They know all about the Romano family, where they got their wealth from, who’s left of the famous family. They know all about Giovanna Romano, her estranged husband Francesco Esposito and their children.

And they know all about Aurora Romano, her sister.

The air around Will seems to shift. Breathing life back into the woman only reminds him of that night. The only thing he tries to focus on is Emilia: the blue-eyed child who clung to his shirt through the boat ride back to shore, and all the way back to the villa.  That child, now a teenager, is wandering the streets of Florence today: even when both of her fathers spoke against it.

“Aurora wasn’t happy,” Will says slowly. Hannibal has taken one of his hands in his own, intertwining their fingers together. Even in the soft light of the study, the glint of their wedding bands catches Will’s eye. “She wasn’t happy in her marriage. She wasn’t happy as a mother. She wasn’t happy in life.”

Hannibal’s hooded eyes watch their hands.

A long sigh from Will grabs his attention. “Everyone has forgotten about her.”

“Everyone but Giovanna,” Hannibal drawls. He looks up at Will’s face, letting their conjoined hands fall to Will’s thigh. “Arguably, the most important person in her life hasn’t forgotten.”

“A missing person in Italy is declared dead after twenty years.”

“After ten, a motion can be brought to a court of law asking for them to declare said person deceased.”

Will’s gaze turns over to a long lancet window that looks out on to the cityscape. “It would still take another ten years for them to be declared legally dead.” His voice doesn’t hold anything in it. It’s absent; spilling forward knowledge, carried over a tone that is just not interested. In all the years that they’ve had Emilia, not once has a missing person’s case popped up.

And Will has looked for them.

 

* * *

 

 

She flips her phone around in her hand. The street isn’t busy, with the occasional passerby moving around her as she stands in front of a storefront. The scent of baked bread and pastries tempts her to step inside for a few minutes. But that’s not why she walked almost half-way across the city. She waits on the other side of the street, watching Santoro’s townhouse closely. It’s midday. A class is on. Marco texted her this morning to say that he was going, but if she wasn’t up for it, she didn’t have to go. Her fathers didn’t want her to go. They didn’t want her to leave the house.

Santoro’s door is slightly ajar, signalling that his office is open, but a class is on. Some parents of other pupils are already lingering at the bottom of the townhouse steps. They’re chatting amongst themselves in fast-paced Italian. Some curious glances have been shot over in her direction, but she sends away with a frown.

Eventually, she hears Santoro’s booming voice coming from the doorway. The students leave in a file, conversing amongst themselves. Once with their parents, the group disperses. Marco is the last to leave Santoro’s house. He stands on the top of the steps, just outside the large red-coloured door, chatting quietly with the tutor.

Emilia moves away from the store-front, shuffling to the side of the pavement. The movement catches Marco’s attention. His eyes widen slightly when he spots her. Santoro gives her a reassuring smile and a small wave. He turns back to Marco and mutters something to him. Marco nods once, and then within a few seconds, has jogged down the townhouse’s steps. With the street quiet, he doesn’t even look when he jogs across the street. “Hey!” His smile is bright. “I was just going to text you.”

Emilia shoves her hands into her pockets. “Sorry for not replying,” she says, heat slowly rising on to her cheeks, “The next morning was kinda rough.”

Marco waves a hand. “It’s fine. As long as you’re okay, that’s all that matters.”

She smiles and nods. “Yeah, I’m...I’m fine.”

The slight pause earns a raised eyebrow from Marco.

“Have you had lunch yet?” Emilia says quickly, looking down the street towards a square courtyard lined with restaurants and cafes. It’s mid-afternoon now, with most people coming back from their lunches. The cafes won’t be busy.

Marco shakes his head. The tight curls of his hair bob with the movement. “Not yet, no. There’s a place near here that serves great pasta, if you want to try it?” he offers.

Emilia smiles. “Sure.”

The restaurant is small, but it has two outdoor areas. One at the front, on the pathway, where a couple of people are already sipping coffee and watching others pass. The other area is at the back – a courtyard with tiled-flooring and surrounded by thickly leaved trees and shrubs, walling it off from the outside. Overhead is a wooden canopy with beams lacing and weaving through each other. Twisting around each is a line of lights and lanterns: turned off, with so much daylight out.

Emilia kind of wants to stay, just to watch them light up for the evening. A middle-aged waitress sits them at a two-person table underneath the canopy. She leaves them with two menus and a pitcher of water. Marco makes idle conversation, as he does with most people, as Emilia scans her eyes over the food choices. A thought passes through her head.

She vaguely remembers Marco and her Papa speaking to each other. The memory is faded – fogs of panic distorting the image and sounds, but she remembers it all the same. _Would you ever join us for a dinner?_ She thinks, looking at the boy sitting across from her. _Not in the way Papa might want you. But you’d be there as a guest._

She snaps back to attention when Marco looks at her. “Anything taking your fancy?”

She folds the menu and hands it over to him. “Bolognaise, _per favore_ ,” she smiles faintly at the waitress. Marco nods and asks for the same. Within a couple of seconds, the waitress is gone. The courtyard is quiet. An elderly couple sits a couple of tables away from them, and another trio are being led inside, but sit away from them too. It’s quiet.

“So,” Marco says after a while, reaching for the pitcher of water. He pours them both ample drinks. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened at the mural?”

Emilia settles him with a look. “You know, I was _just_ thinking ‘wow, this is a nice moment’. Way to ruin it.” His expression falters slightly, but she quirks a slight smile. “I’m joking. Um, in all honesty, I don’t know,” she lies, “I think something about that case got to me.”

Marco nods. “That’s understandable. It shook Naples for a couple of months, or that’s what my _nonna_ says anyway.”

Emilia looks down at her glass. Swilling the water around, she takes a sip. “Understandable,” she mumbles. _People searched for you_ , a sour voice hisses in the back of her mind, _you were_ stolen _._

 ** _I was saved_** , she manages to hiss back at the voice. It shrivels away. Their food arrives. The smell of the rich bolognaise sauce makes her stomach quiver. Bread baskets are placed between the two of them, alongside a small bowl of parmesan and two bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. The waitress smiles brightly at the two of them. Emilia can only imagine what she thinks of them.

Sprinkling on an ample amount of parmesan and oil, she digs into her food. Marco follows suit. Eating in front of someone who isn’t one of her fathers is an odd sensation. Gone are her Papa’s years of table etiquette and mannerisms. Marco isn’t like either of them. He’s slumped slightly in his chair, one elbow on the table, twirling his pasta idly and without much precision.

 _Okay,_ she thinks _, Papa **might** kill you_.

They make idle conversation while they eat. Marco doesn’t mention the mural or the disappearance again, and she’s grateful for it. A brief thought flashes through her mind. Papa told her a couple of nights ago that if he’s worth keeping, some information could be let slip. But what would she even say?

_Hey, I’m that girl that the mural is about. Surprise! My Dad is actually some ex-FBI officer who witnessed my parents being killed. My Papa? He’s the most wanted serial killer in the US right now. Being a cannibal doesn’t bode well with them, I suppose. They fell in love and fell off a cliff – funny story, that, I’ll tell you about it some time. Or maybe they will? Join us for dinner. NOT THAT WAY! No. Papa won’t touch you, I promise. Oh! My name is Emilia, by the way. **Call me Emilia**._

Her attention must have drifted, because when she looks at Marco again, his head is tilted slightly, and he’s looking at her funny. “Hey,” he smiles faintly, “where did you go just then?”

She shakes her head, dislodging a few strands of hair that fall from her ponytail. “It’s nothing, just a bit dazed.”

They finish off their meal, both sitting back into their chairs with happy sighs. “Will this place become a regular spot, then?” Marco smiles, wiping at the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

“Absolutely,” she smiles. The restaurant is nice. Since being here, a few more people have been ushered out to the courtyard, but the noise isn’t overwhelming. The space between each table allows for them all to be within their own worlds. She thinks of telling her fathers about this place. It’s been a while since they’ve gotten the chance to go out by themselves.

She can already hear the barrage of questions they’ll ask. _Who will watch over you? How long do you want us to be? We can be home in a few hours, if you want? Do you want to come with us? Call us if there’s anything you need, okay?_

All of the questions are asked in her Dad’s voice.

As they leave the courtyard, Marco strides forward towards the register. As Emilia opens her mouth to ask what the hell he’s doing, Marco shoots her a smile over his shoulder. “I’ll get this one,” he says, shrugging a shoulder. “You can get the next one.”

A laugh bubbles up from her throat. “If you told me that you were paying, I would have gotten more food.”

Marco bumps his shoulder against hers. At the main register, their waitress is putting in their order and calculating the cost. When she spots them, she raises her hands.

“ _La bella coppia!_ ” she smiles brightly, waving them both forward. Marco already has a handful of euro notes in his hand. They both blush at the statement. The waitress laughs at their nervous smiles. “ _Giovane amore_ , there’s nothing like it!”

Marco runs his fingers through his curls. It dislodges a few of them from their nest atop of his head and they fall down to frame his face. It makes his cheekbones stand out.

 _Stop staring at his face you idiot_ , a voice whispers to her.

“Your parents seem nice,” he says idly as they stroll through one of the larger courtyards of the city. “Or at least, your father seems nice. I only spoke with him for a little bit.”

Emilia smiles at the faded memory that pops up. “Yeah. I’m sorry if he came across as cold. Papa can be...protective.”

The bell of a nearby cathedral rings out that the hour has changed. The sound’s vibrations shake a flock of pigeons from the steeple. Emilia watches them fly into the air.

She hears Marco laugh. “All fathers are protective of their daughters. Though, I have to ask, what’s your dad like?”

“Kind,” is the first word to leave her mouth. “Protective, like Papa, but not in the same way. If that makes sense?”

“Yeah, it does,” Marco nods. There’s a pause between them. “My father lives in Rome: a businessman. I don’t see much of him, but that’s okay. I like living here with _nonna_.”

Emilia nods along.

“You should meet her. I think you’d like her: fiery woman, an Italian _nonna_ through and through. 

Emilia remembers him talking about his father before. A businessman who works for a bank in Rome. He sent Marco away to study in Florence. She can’t remember is Marco’s grandmother is his father’s mother or his mother’s. Then again, she can’t remember him ever mentioning his mother. “What about your mother?”

“Died when I was a toddler,” he shrugs, like it’s the easiest thing to say. “Leukaemia. It got pretty bad when I was two. She died when I turned three.”

Heat gathers along the back of Emilia’s neck. “I’m sorry,” she offers.

He shrugs again. “I don’t really remember her, and it doesn’t make me sad. That must sound awful but it’s true. Dad focused on his work ever since then.”

“My mother died when I was five.”

The words leave her before she can slam her mouth shut. Waves of panic lap against her mind, threatening to spill over the dam she’s constructed for herself over the last few days.

“ _Merda_ , I’m sorry,” Marco says. He squints his eyes against the harsh sunlight that’s spilling into the courtyard. He shakes his head. “I mean, I know you must have had a mother, with your dads and all, but that’s still rough.”

Emilia fiddles with her fingernail. _Technically_ she’s an orphan. She’s been adopted by two men that she’s called Papa and Dad for almost eleven years. The Romanos aren’t her family. She had to strain to remember her mother’s own name. Even then, she had to double check. And she was wrong.

Aurora Romano wasn’t her mother. She was attentive and kind when she paid attention, but when she paid attention it was to get away from her husband Francesco. He didn’t even pay her a second glance. When she remembers that trip out on the boat, and the ‘vacation’ to Atrani, all she really vividly remembers is Dad saving her from monsters.

Marco stands a bit closer to her. “You went away again,” he says lowly, looking straight at her eyes. Up close, she realises how lightly coloured his eyes actually are. He frowns slightly. “Where exactly do you go when you go away?”

“My memory palace,” she answers simply. She expects him to be curious: to ask what in God’s name that is. She’s surprised when he just nods.

“I’ve heard of it. Interesting concept, and I can only imagine very helpful in use.” He pauses. “So what is it? What is your memory palace?”

She reaches into her mind. “A villa in Baracoa Cuba,” she smiles faintly, “we used to live there before.”

His eyebrows raise at that. “Cuba?”

“I was happy there,” she replies simply. She realises how much she’s actually let slip. Even if it was just a sentence about her mother dying, something that can be written off with the life she leads now, it’s still bothering you.

They walk to their usual gelato place, having dropped the conversation about their families since. Marco’s idly talking about Santoro’s class earlier that day. Some of the students are getting annoying apparently. She smiles faintly. They’ve always been annoying: it’s just that Marco is too nice to notice. Well, he seems to be noticing now. She feels like some of her personality is rubbing off on him.

Grabbing their usual order of gelato, they walk out to sit in the courtyard. A couple of tourist groups wander past, looking up at the buildings lining the streets. They sit on the edge of a water fountain, making idle conversation.

“I really need to thank you for the other day,” Emilia says, swirling her spoon around in her gelato.

Marco pauses. “It’s really no problem,” he says quietly, but it’s warm. “My sister used to get them all the time. _Nonna_ didn’t really know what to do. She used to tell Natalie to just calm down, to breathe. I spent almost three years telling her that it doesn’t work like that at all. So I taught myself how to deal with them.” He pauses for a few seconds. “When you started panicking, I remembered sitting with Natalie and showing her what to do. It was hard: trying to show a panicking person what to do before they pass out. She got the hang of them eventually.”

Marco looks up at her through a stray curl that has fallen on to his face. “But you seemed to have it under control,” he laughs.

Digging her spoon into her gelato, she continues to swirl it around in the cream, mixing the caramel sauce further into it. “Papa used to be a psychiatrist,” she says slowly. Everything in her mind is telling her to either shut up or to consider her words _very_ carefully. She ignores them. “He used to practise a lot before we came here.”

A slight frown creases his brow. “What made him stop?”

To that, she actually doesn’t have an answer. Papa spends his days cooking, reading, drawing and painting, and wandering around the city. Most of his time is spent with her Dad. But she does know about the Lecter Estate. She knows about the funds and bank accounts linked to his family. She spent a part of her life vaguely wondering how Papa could afford all of the safe houses they’ve fled to over the years. Dad never seemed to have a problem with it. But as years went by, more and more information about their past lives started to be revealed to her.

Emilia bites the inside of her cheek. “I guess he just wanted to stop,” she offers simply. “He’s taught me how to manage my episodes. Dad helps too, when he can. But Papa gave me everything I needed to learn how to avoid having them in the first place.”

“I’ve never seen anyone _stop_ a panic attack,” he says slowly. He looks at the space between them before laughing softly. “I suppose I’m not surprised. You’re pretty intimidating, Fia. No wonder that attack fled.”

She reaches out to shove his shoulder. “I’m not intimidating! I’m a lovable person,” she huffs, lifting a spoon loaded with slightly-melted gelato and caramel cause to her mouth. Marco laughs as she cleans the rest of her bowl.

 

* * *

 

 

They walk back while it’s still light out. She notices that they don’t follow their usual route – the one they took last time. He leads her through another way, casually strolling instead of their usual scramble back home. The evening is washed in warm orange light. Against the pale cream coloured paint of townhouses and the cobblestone street, it looks so foreign to her. It’s nice, she decides, looking around at the sepia tone that has settled.

Their walk to her home takes almost thirty minutes more than usual. A couple of messages from her fathers came through during that time. She’s answered all of them with _I’m on my way home now. Don’t worry_. Papa left it after that, happy that she would make it home in time for dinner. Her phone keeps vibrating in her pocket every few minutes. That’s Dad checking on her progress. She’s thinking of just putting a tracker in her neck so that he won’t worry anymore.

They reach the outside of her apartment block eventually. Something settles in her stomach – something heavy. It’s always been there whenever her evenings with Marco are over. She’s always waved it away though. It usually disappears by the time she gets inside her home.

“I can walk you up, if you want?” Marco says after a second.

Glancing over, she feels a warm blush settle along her cheekbones. “No, no, I’m okay. Thank you though.” Papa would be finishing preparing dinner. Dad would be somewhere in the house doing whatever it is he did nowadays. But the feeling in her stomach still lingers. 

 _Fuck it_.

Emilia turns and takes a step forward, reaching out with trembling fingers to rest her hand against the centre of Marco’s chest. Raising herself on to her toes, she presses her lips against his. It’s a press of lips and nothing more, but something light blooms in her chest. Her fingers curl against the front of his shirt. After a second, she feels a firm hand against the small of her back.

As quickly as it happened, it stops. The touch against her back makes her heart hammer against her chest. With her front so close to his, she worries that he can feel her heart through her sweater. Pulling away, she looks down at the space between them. Her phone is buzzing in her pocket.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” A small smile is on Marco’s lip, tugging the corner upwards.

Emilia frowns slightly. Her fingers don’t move from their place against his chest. “You have a class with Santoro, don’t you?”

Cautiously reaching out, as if waiting for her to retract back, he reaches out and brushes her hair behind her ear. His fingers are warm when they brush the shell of her ear. “I do,” he shrugs a shoulder, “but I’d prefer spending time with you.”

Her phone buzzes again. She thinks about sprinting into her bathroom to splash some cold water on her face. She doesn’t even need to see herself in a mirror to know that her face must be blush-red.

When she manages to pull herself away from him, she turns on her heel and walks straight into the lobby of the building. The receptionist waves at her, like he always does, and she disappears into the elevator. One side is complete mirror and she catches herself in the reflection. She’s beetroot red. She touches the side of her face with her fingertips, feeling the heat radiating off of her skin.

When she reaches the hallway of their apartment, she’s caught by her Dad in the hallway. “Hey,” he calls out, “dinner is nearly on the table.”

“Yeah, um, I’m just going to change first,” she waves her hand down the hallway to her own room. She already has her sweater off, and she knows that Papa would send her away if she tried coming to the dinner table in a tank-top and skinny jeans.

Will nods slowly, sending her a scrutinising look. “Okay...” he says, before turning away.

“By the way, your face is very flushed,” he says, It makes her freeze. She can _hear_ the smile that must be on his face. “Splash some cold water on your face. It should help.”

She doesn’t wait to hear him laughing as she rushes into her room, letting the door slam behind her.

 

* * *

 

 

The noise earned a raised eyebrow from Hannibal. Carving another portion of lamb shank, he looks up to see Will walking into the kitchen, hands in his pockets and a smile on his face. “I thought we were past the age of slamming doors?”

Will chuckles as he plucks a radish from a serving platter in the middle of the kitchen island. “Oh no, those years have only begun.”

Taking a quick look towards the hallway, Will leans forward slightly. “I think our daughter might have met up with that boy again,” he says, idly picking at more julienned vegetables.

Hannibal continues to carve. “What makes you say that?”

“She’s as blushed as a peach,” he says, looking to the hallway again. He’d rather not be sent _looks_ all through dinner. “I think something happened between them.”

Hannibal’s movements falter slightly. “Like what, William?”

It gets a chuckle out of Will. “I’m not sure. Nothing bad, I’m sure. Probably had her first kiss or something-”

Will’s eyes move down to Hannibal’s hand.  The man’s grip around the carving knife tightens slightly. “ _And_ you’re not going to do anything: remember?” Will asks lightly. Memories of their midnight talks flash through his mind. He managed to wrangle an agreement out of his husband after a couple of weeks: he wasn’t to touch Marco unless pushed to.

Hannibal stares at him for a moment before sighing. “I remember,” he says. Will doesn’t miss the _thump_ sound of the knife being embedded in the cork chopping board.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> College is almost done. Just three more weeks...oh God. 
> 
> But Hannibal's promise to Will is my promise to you: nothing will happen to Marco.
> 
> Yet.
> 
> Comments and Kudos gladly welcomed!


	18. Florence, Italy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So turns out, if you start something almost a year ago and sporadically update it without consulting previous chapters, you WILL forget certain details. So...I'm going to start addressing them: because PLOT needs to happen lol. Something will happen in Florence. Don't worry about it. It's my job to worry about it.

Both of her fathers have long since gone to bed. She looks tiredly at her bedside clock. 1:35 am. Her Dad is a known-night owl, but he said his goodnight almost three hours ago. Both her and Papa turned in for the night, happy to leave her in her own devices. The apartment has fallen into silence. Just across from her bed, both Dante and Cato sleep soundly: occasionally kicking out a leg or snoring.

Her laptop screen spills light out on to her otherwise dark room. She rubs at her eyes – starting to dry out and burn slightly. Until a couple of days ago, she didn’t realise how annoying someone dropping off the grid could be. It’s been her life since she was five. It’s why she’s trudging through the internet in the first place. It’s all she’s ever known. Now she’s experiencing the other side of it. She’s spent the last few days searching and searching for any hint of the Romano case – her case. She found a few articles that described what apparently happened on that boat, and how Giovanna sent the family’s company into arrears by spending huge amounts of money on search parties.

She sits back against the headboard of her bed when she finds it: a picture of her mother. She frowns at the word. Mother. Aurora Romano was her mother. _To an extent_ , her mind supplies. She shakes the voice away.

But looking at the picture on her laptop, of Aurora Romano and Ricardo Esposito at a gala, she’s not sure about what to feel. Something dull sits at the bottom of her heart, aching faintly, when she looks at Aurora. Smiling within the picture, but Emilia knows better. Flashes of her childhood wrack through her mind. Aurora is always smiling in her memories.

Rubbing at her temples, she stretches out her leg and closes her laptop with her foot. With the room suddenly plunged into darkness, the pain in her eyes just gets worse. “Fuck,” she mutters, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyelids. It takes a couple of minutes for the eyestrain to ebb away.

The two dogs in baskets on the other side of the room lift their heads. Streaked with grey along their muzzled, they slowly stand up, stretch, and pad over to Emilia’s bed. She huffs a laugh when Dante uses his long legs to easily clamber up on to the bed. It takes Cato a couple of tries: eventually giving up with a grunt.

“Come here, you little gremlin,” she says fondly, leaning over the side of her bed to pick up the small dog. Cato lets out another grunt at being picked up, but starts wagging his tail once settled on Emilia’s lap. Dante digs slightly at the sheets before lying down next to her. She pets both dogs idly as she glances back to her laptop, kicked to the side and almost hidden by rumpled sheets. Niggling at the back of her mind are questions about that night: about the man that accompanied them out on to the water. She’d almost forgotten about him completely. Her father once told her that children tend to forget aspects of their childhood, particularly if it’s deeply traumatic.

Or something like that. She wasn’t really listening.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Do I have to go to class today, Papa_?”

Hannibal looks up from his tablet. Sitting silently at the dining room table, the remnants of breakfast are still laid out in front of them. The mornings are always lazy: even on a weekday.

Santoro hasn’t been to their home in almost two weeks. Tutoring lessons are the last things on her mind. Santoro has been holding more classes within his own home. She only knows about them because Marco tells her. Apparently, she isn’t missing much by staying at home.

Hannibal considers it for a moment. “ _If you think that you’re well enough, then you can go_.” He narrows his eyes slightly, sitting back in his chair. “ _But it seems like you don’t want to anyway_.”

Will looks between the two of them, staying mostly silent throughout their breakfast. “No plotting in Lithuanian while I’m here, please,” he says, reaching out to pour himself another glass of orange juice.

“I offered to teach you when I was teaching her,  _mylimasis_ ," Hannibal smiles. Will rolls his eyes and goes back to eating. Emilia looks down at her own plate. She managed to eat enough as to not worry Hannibal, but some remnants of food still linger on her plate. She pushes some scrambled eggs around with her fork.

“ _If it’s okay with you, I would rather stay here._ ”

At that, Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “ _You want to stay here? What about that boy you insist on seeing_?”

Something heavy drops to the bottom of her stomach. She fixes him with a hard stare. “ _ **Tėvas**_.” 

Will looks up at them again, raising an eyebrow. That word, he does understand. “What did you say now?” he directs at Hannibal.

She puts her cutlery on her plate. “May I be excused?” she asks, deliberately pointing the question to Will. He nods, and within a few seconds, she has her plate and glass gathered and is heading towards the kitchen. “ _Thank you for breakfast_ ,” she shoots over her shoulder to Hannibal before disappearing behind the doorframe.

Making sure that he has given her enough time to be out of earshot, Will sits back in his chair, breakfast forgotten. “Do I even want to know what that was about?” he nods his head towards the kitchen.

A soft sigh escapes Hannibal. “She doesn’t want to go to Santoro’s class today,”

Will shrugs. “That’s fine. She’s had a bad time recently.”

“Hmm.” Hannibal turns his attention back to the tablet in front of him. He’s spent the last couple of days skimming through new reports flooding into TattleCrime: detailed accounts from “eyewitnesses” stating that the Murder Husbands have been spotted within a rural town in Colorado. Hannibal smirks at the witness reports. Freddie has been grasping at straws since their disappearance. Hannibal just likes keeping tabs on what’s happening within the States.

He feels Will’s sock-clad toe poke at his shin. “What’s wrong?” the other man asks when he looks away from the tablet.

A small sigh leaves Hannibal’s nose. “I’m worried about her,” he keeps his voice low. She’s not in the kitchen anymore, but the girl has a bat’s hearing: particularly when her fathers speak about her.

Will scoops up a forkful of scrambled eggs. “You always worry about her,” he corrects.

Hannibal sighs again. “I worry about her when she’s with _him_.”

It takes a moment of silence for the ball to drop.

“You’re such a dad,” Will chuckles, turning his attention back to his breakfast.

“Don’t act innocent. You do the same.” Hannibal’s reply is monotonous.

Will raises his brow. “I don’t threaten to castrate the poor boy whenever you figure out that Emilia and him are together.” He reaches out and places it on Hannibal’s. A small smile appears on his lips when the other man turns his hand upward to interlink their fingers together. “Talk to me,” Will coaxes, “what has you so worried?”

Hannibal’s attention is away from the tablet. Its screen eventually flickers to black as it’s forgotten about. “I worry about how close they’ve gotten,” he says, eyes focusing on the joined hands resting comfortably against the mahogany wood table. “I know our daughter: she’s intelligent and sly. I know she won’t, but I worry that she’ll slip up. Something might come out – something that doesn’t fit the narrative that we’ve constructed for ourselves here.”

There’s a pregnant pause that falls over the both of them.

“I’m not anxious about our daughter having a boyfriend,” Hannibal says slowly. Will doesn’t miss the way his husband’s voice wavers slightly over _boyfriend_. “I’m anxious that their relationship could be dangerous.”

Will frowns. “Weren’t you the one who encouraged her to pursue it?” he asks slowly. “I seem to remember hushed conversations in the kitchen.”

“I did,” Hannibal nods, “but I didn’t realise how closely they could get to each other.”

There’s another pause. “Why don’t you talk to her about it?” Will squeezes his hand around Hannibal’s. “Don’t tell her that you’re worried. Just tell her to be careful with what she says around him.”

The sound of boots against hardwood floor put an end to their conversation. Within a couple of seconds, Emilia appears at the doorway. She wears a light shirt tucked into worn denim jeans and high-top shoes. She cradles her phone in front of her. “Can I go into town?”

Both Hannibal and Will share a look. “Of course,” Hannibal answers for them, knowing too well where she’s going and who with. He really doesn’t have anything against the boy. His opinion changed the night that he delivered her safely home to them during one of her attacks. Once she had been shown to bed, Hannibal spent the night mulling over his thoughts while Will slept soundly beside him. He couldn’t fault Marco. But a protective instinct still lingered and prowled in the back of his mind.

Emilia shoves her phone into her pocket. “Are you two okay?” she pointedly looks at their hands on the table. “Should I be worried?”

Will looks over to Hannibal. He smirks slightly when he sees the other’s man throat bob with a swallow. “No, _dovana_ ,” Hannibal says casually, “we’re just fine. Don’t worry.”

Emilia doesn’t look convinced, but she puts up her hands. “Okay then.” She takes a couple of steps back into the hallway. “I’ll be home in a few hours. I’ll text you.”

Will waves her away. “Go on, before we change our minds.”

 

* * *

 

 

She makes a point of meeting with Marco in a street that leads on to the one with the mural. She hasn’t seen it _that evening_ , but the image hasn’t left her mind. The little girl’s eyes – her eyes – stare back at her during the night. She can’t sleep on her back anymore, looking at the stark white ceiling of her room. It looks too much like the wall that the mural is on.

She gets to their meeting post before him. Looking around the quiet street, she smiles in greeting at a couple of people who pass her. A bakery is not too far down the street, and she thinks about popping in for a second. As soon as the temptation to starting walking towards it appears, two hands slowly slide around her waist, tugging her back slightly against a body.

Instinct threatens to take over until she realises who the hands belong to.

“Don’t do that!” she spins around and shoves at Marco’s shoulder. He staggers back a couple of steps, laughing and raising his hands. “You’ll end up with a broken nose!” She reaches out for the lapels of his jacket, balling the fabric in her fists.

Once his laughter dies down slightly, Marco reaches out to take one of her hands in his. “Come on then, Athena,” he chuckles, walking them both down the long stretch of street. Emilia’s eyes flicker over to the alleyway with the mural, just across the street, but they’re going in the opposite direction. “Do you want to grab something to eat?”

Emilia shakes her head. “We just had breakfast at home, so I’m not hungry. But if you want to go somewhere we can?”

Marco arches an eyebrow at her. “You _just_ had breakfast? It’s midday!” He tilts his head. “So, if we aren’t grabbing food, why did you want to meet up?”

She reaches up and wraps her arms loosely around his shoulders, interlocking her fingers behind his neck. “I just wanted to see you again,” she smiles. It’s genuine: not one that she would just plaster on for the sake of it. “I’ve spent days at home, bored out of my mind. I missed you.”

Marco’s expression softens. His own hands go to her hips – just above her hipbones, resting more on her sides than anything else. “Santoro’s classes have been dull without you,” he sighs, “he’s just droning on and on nowadays about...well, God knows what.”

Emilia almost snorts. It’s not like Marco to badmouth Santoro. The guy is practically a saint: always patient and kind with his students. While it’s the last thing on her mind, Emilia sort of misses his presence in her home. She hasn’t been in the secondary study for almost three weeks. Dust is probably setting in.

Combing her fingers through the curls resting on the back of his neck, Emilia tilts her head. “Actually, there was something I thought we could do today, if you want?”

Marco looks at her blankly for a moment. “It’s not something your father would kill and skin me for, is it?”

A laugh bubbles up her throat. “No,” she shakes her head, smiling, “no, no. I was wondering if we could, I don’t know, go back to see that mural again?”

Her gaze flickers over to the alleyway hiding the mural. People walking down the street pass it without even glancing at it.

Marco follows her gaze over his shoulder. When he spots what she’s looking at, he sighs. “Are you sure?” he asks slowly. “You almost passed out last time.”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine, honestly,” she squeezes his hand. “I just...I wanna know more about...the little girl.”

Marco turns around and regards her for a minute. A small sigh leaves his nose. “Alright,” he says lowly, “ _but_ if you start hyperventilating, I’m dragging you away. Got it?”

A smile curls Emilia’s lip as she links her arm around his. “Sure,” she nods. They leave the sunlight drenched street for the shaded alleyway. Washed clothes and towels hang from lines of rope that weave above them in a web. Windows of rooms to houses are open, letting in the warm summer air. Smells of baking and cooking flow back out. As they walk down the alley, Emilia thinks that it looks brighter than it did on that day.

When they reach the mural, her gait stumbles slightly. She spots a small circular wreath leaning against the wall: white roses entwined with deep emerald leaves and vines. It’s small, and a couple of white petals have fallen on to the cracked cobblestone pavement. She stares at it.

“Someone from the neighbourhood probably put it here,” Marco says slowly, looking up and down the quiet street. The mural looks the same as last time: painted faded and cracked in places, but the original image still clings on to the rough surface of the wall.

Emilia runs her eyes over it. “So, you think someone painted this for Giovanna?”

There’s a pause between them. “I think so,” Marco says slowly. “I was little at the time, so I don’t really remember. But she never came here. I know that.”

“Would your _nonna_ know?”

Marco shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe. I never thought to ask.”

Emilia looks over at him. He’s looking directly ahead at the mural, taking in the faded colours of the paint. There’s a slightly pained look in his eyes. She stands a bit closer to him, taking his hand in one of hers – curling her other arm around his. “Could you ask for me?”

Marco quirks a look at her. “Why do you want to know so badly?”

She hugs his arm closer to her chest. “Just interested,” she shrugs. She’s hoping the mask she’s veiled over her face keeps him from asking too many questions. It seems to work when, after a second, he turns back to the mural and nods. Rising on to her toes, she leans up to press a quick kiss against her high cheekbone.

A small smile curls his lip.

 

* * *

 

 

She gently knocks against the doorframe of her Papa’s office. The door is open, but childhood habit makes her stop instantly at the portal of the doorway and knock regardless. “Papa?”

“Come in, _dovana_ ,” Hannibal calls out. The study is quiet, and as soon as she’s stepped in, she notices that he’s the only one there. Usually, Dad would be within the study too, either talking with Papa or idly reading one of the many books that line the walls. Hannibal looks up from his drawing and smiles warmly at her. “Did you have a nice time in town?”

She closes the door behind her. It shuts with a deafening _click_. “Yes, I did, thank you,” she says, reaching up to brush a lock of hair behind her ears.

“Papa, can I ask you something?” she asks slowly. The only sounds within the study are her feet shuffling along the hardwood floor, the small fire within the fireplace crackling and sparking, and the drag of her Papa’s pencil over paper. Even though all quiet sounds, in the otherwise silent room, they’re deafening.

Hannibal doesn’t look up from his work. “Of course you can, sweet girl,” he says.

Walking towards his desk, she looks down at the work he’s preening over. She doesn’t recognise it. Must be original, then.

She wrings her hands together as she sits in the armchair opposite his – Dad’s usual chair. It’s unusual, she thinks, to be nervous about asking her Papa a question. It reminds her of being six or seven years old, when she would wander into his old studies and plant herself either on his lap or in one of the chairs, refusing to move until he had answered every question she had thought of. Most of them were dumb – questions that only children could ask. Others, though, others were just plain odd.

She cracks a knuckle in her index finger. Drawing in a measured breath, she pushes the question out of her. “What would be the best way of getting back repressed memories?”

At that, Hannibal looks up at her, pencil still on the page. His expression is entirely neutral.

“Hypothetically speaking, of course. In your professional opinion,” she finishes, leaning back against the soft leather back of the armchair. It smells faintly like Dad. It’s probably the only thing not making her heart want to leap out of her chest from beating against her ribcage so quickly.

He’s silent for an uneasy amount of time. “In my professional opinion,” he starts, words measured and slow, “I would say that it would take a series of sessions consisting of different forms of RMT.”

“Recovered-memory therapy,” she replies, remembering one occasion of him teaching her about it.

He nods, setting down his pencil. “There would be no one technique used. Some sessions would include hypnotherapy, others would include sedatives. But RMT is hardly ever used by psychiatrists anymore.”

She tilts her head. “Why?”

“It can pose too many risks to the person repressing the memory.” Hannibal sits back in his own chair. “Often those repressed memories are repressed for a reason.”

There’s a pause between them. It occurs to her that he wants her to answer. “If they’re repressed, that’s the mind’s way of protecting itself and everything else.”

He nods again: this time, a warm smile is faintly on his lips. “Correct. The subconscious may deal with it over time.” Another silence falls over the both of them. It’s interrupted by a sharp crackle from the fire, steadily growing in size. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m just curious.” That’s true.

But he tilts his head. He knows that she’s full of shit. “You have never asked about this before. An odd question on psychotherapy as a whole, maybe, but you’ve never asked specifics on any topic. Especially one so close to home.”

Emilia suddenly feels heat rush to her cheeks. “I’m-”

“-You said it yourself, _dovana_ ,” he interjects, voice steady, “repressed memories are repressed because the mind can’t deal with them. Not yet. You’re still young.”

She frowns. “The memories I have are the ones you and Dad constructed for me,” she says lowly. “I remember some things like spending the day in the town, trailing behind Ricardo and his friend, having Aurora hold on to my hand as if I’d be snatched away from her.” The names of her parents feel odd on her tongue. But then again, she’s tried naming them as Dad and Mum, but those titles don’t fit them either. And she knows for a fact that if she did call Ricardo _Dad_ , it would be a slap in the face to her Papa.

“I remember getting back on the boat, and Aurora tucking me into bed. I even remember the damn song playing in the next cabin while she said her goodnights. But everything else, I can’t remember.”

Hannibal drums his fingers on the hard leather of the armrest. “And it’s probably for the best that you don’t, _dovana_.”

“ _To be brought into your home was more than I could have asked for_ ,” she presses on, Lithuanian fluently pouring out of her. If there’s one way to get her Papa to _listen_ , it’s in his native tongue. “ _I could have been left in that cabin, sent adrift into the ocean or burned alive when Dad burned it all. But no. I was brought to your home and given a place among you both. I’ve lived as your daughter since then. But there’s a segment of my mind that’s missing. And I would like it back_.”

A heavy sigh leaves her nose. “ _Please_.”

Outside in the hallway, pattering of dog claws against the wooden flooring can be heard, alongside Will’s gentle voice ushering them away from the door. The study’s door opens, and Will quickly steps inside: pushing the prodding muzzles of dogs back into the hallway. When he turns around, he pauses. He looks between his husband and his daughter, a slight frown etched into his brow. “Everything okay in here?”

 Emilia turns in her seat to look back to her Papa. They share a quick, silent glance, before Hannibal turns to the other man. He shoots Will a reassuring smile. “Everything’s fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments & Kudos welcomed xx
> 
> Emilia will be instrumental in PLOT happening, but also, look at our little girl! Turning into a mini-Hannibal "I Can Persuade People To Do What I Want" Lecter! Whether or not that's a good thing, I think a consultation with Will Graham is in order.
> 
> [Also what happened to Marco's character continues to surprise me. Listen, I'll be the first to admit it: I was writing this with no plan, no idea what in God's name I was doing, or where it was going to go. (and of course, now I'm shoe-horning in plot because I'm me). Marco was meant to be an annoying minor place-holder-like character who would eventually either fade into nothing or be axed off somehow. And here he is! Dating the daughter of two infamous serial killers! (and painted a great big target on himself for a ruthless writer like me)]


	19. Florence, Italy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emilia pries into her past with her fathers' help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very long chapter! I was originally going to split this into two and upload them on the same day, but I realised that there wasn't a good split in between part a & b, so I just left it as it is. Enjoy! (It's also making up for me not posting in a while lol)

She doesn’t tend to spend much time in Hannibal’s office. There’s never been any reason to. She remembers when she was younger, inquisitive and naive, she would just wander into his studies in their various homes over the years, clamber up on to his lap, and ask whatever it was that was on her mind.

If he had been drawing, he gave her a spare piece of paper and a pencil, and let her draw with him. If he had been writing, he helped her with her alphabet. Sometimes Will would join them, sitting in an armchair on the other side of the desk, watching them both with soft eyes and a small smile on his lips.

But now, the morning after their talk, she lingers in his study, glancing up at the bookshelves lining the walls. She reaches up and runs her fingertips along the spines of leather-bound books. She recognises most of them: classics of literature to textbooks from his studies at John Hopkins. Others, though, she doesn’t recognise. She pulls out one tome: a psychology book she’s never seen before. The title is so faded against the soft leather-binding that she doesn’t even try to make out who it’s from. The once-gold lettering on the front has been worn away into flecks of remaining paint. She puts it back.

“So how does it work?” she asks slowly, looking over the books again. “Getting back repressed memories?”

Hannibal writes at his desk. For a time, the only sounds in the study had been his pencil scraping softly against the page, Emilia’s shoes thudding on the floorboards. It had been a sort of quiet that was almost peaceful, if not for a lingering question weighing down the air around them.

A question that just fell out of her mouth.

Hannibal doesn’t stop writing. He does pause for a moment, but continues on. “Well, repressed memories are repressed because the brain isn’t quite ready to process what has happened. When a traumatic event occurs, the brain enacts an emergency lock-down.”

Emilia looks away from the books. “Yeah. I don’t think five-year-old me was ready to process the murder of people yet.”

She hears Hannibal click his tongue. The sound is sharp against the otherwise quiet room. “I really should have a word with your father about that humour of yours. You inherited such crassness from him and it’s abhorrent.”

She smiles. “I see. So when Dad’s being funny, you’re enamoured; but when I try to be funny, you hate it?”

Hannibal hums an affirmative. He turns over a new page and continues with his notes. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, in order for the brain to properly process traumatic events, it stores the memory of it somewhere within the mind. It can be quite hard to treat patients that have done this because they often don’t remember either the event, or the root of their problem. Therapists and psychiatrists have believed that a way to treat patients is to simply find a way to reopen these pathways that the memories have scurried down.”

Folding her arms over her chest, Emilia wanders towards the armchair on the other side of the desk.  “I remember some of it,” she says slowly, reaching out to run a hand over the soft leather back of the chair. One of Dad’s sweaters is draped over the back of it. The material is soft when she touches it. All of the textures in the room have been grounding to her.

Hannibal hums. “That’s normal. Memories can break apart and surface, while others stay stubbornly hidden.”

Emilia sits in the chair, leaning against the back of the chair. She glances down at what Hannibal’s writing. A small pile of paper has gathered to his right. He hasn’t stopped writing since she came in.

They’re both quiet for a moment. “I want you to understand something, _dovana_ ,” Hannibal says measurably. The pen in his hand doesn’t stop moving. “It’s natural that you want to find out and understand what happened that night. Your father and I will try to inform you as best as we can about the events.”

She opens her mouth to cut in, but shuts it. Truthfully, she’s having doubts. After speaking to her Papa last night, her mind has churned with thoughts about what would happen _if_ she got those memories back. There are chunks of information missing. Not just from the boat, but from earlier in that day. She just wants to know more.

Hannibal sighs and looks up at her. There’s something behind his eyes, she notices when they lock gazes. His expression is soft. “If you’re certain that this is what you want,” he says, shuffling the last of his pages to the side and resting joined hands on the desk.

Emilia shrinks back into the chair slightly. After a quiet moment, she nods.

 

* * *

 

 

“Absolutely not.”

“Here we go,” Emilia mutters under her breath as she twirls pasta around her fork. Dinner was going _so well_ , she thinks as she keeps her eyes locked on to what’s on her plate. She hears cutlery clattering to the table as her Dad swears.

Will’s head whips between the two of them. His brow is tightly knitted in a frown. His gaze eventually fixes on Hannibal. “ _No_. You’re not doing that. Do you hear me, Hannibal?”

The other man quietly continues eating, breaking to reach out and take a sip of wine.

“ _Hannibal_ ,” Will grits out, “do you hear me?”

“Perfectly, _mano meile_ ,” Hannibal says, continuing with his dinner. With that, silence settles over the table: broken by the occasional scrape of a knife or fork against the plate. The back of Emilia’s neck starts to burn. Heat crawls through her body, eventually wrapping around her and settling high on her cheeks. Some of her hair, recently re-dyed brown to stop the blond from coming through, falls down from her ponytail and down around her face.

Will huffs and gathers back his cutlery, angrily jabbing his fork into his pasta. “It’s like you’ve learned nothing,” he growls. “It’s like you haven’t seen what your meddling in people’s minds can do. With people outside of this family, sure, fine. But when it concerns me, when it concerns our _daughter_ , I won’t have it.”

Hannibal places his knife and fork down, resting the points against the edge of the plate. He slowly picks up a napkin, dabbing the corner of it to the edge of his mouth. “ _Could you excuse us for a moment, Emilia?_ ”

Her ears prick at the familiar lull of Lithuanian. She tilts her head slightly, peering out from behind a curtain of hair to her Papa. His face is expressionless.

 _“I won’t ask again_.”

Her chair almost flies backwards with how quickly she leaves the table. She hasn’t even reached the door to the hallway before her fathers start arguing.

“She’s sixteen, almost seventeen, she can make her own decisions-”

“-Decisions include if she wants to go out with friends, or what time she’s staying out until, maybe if she wants to go to college or not. Decisions are _not trying to reverse brain chemistry-_ ”

“-I assure you Will, I’ll try my best to guide her through-”

“-No, that’s the problem!” Will shouts. “ _You’re_ the one doing it!”

Hannibal sits back in his chair. “If you like, I could get another psychiatrist-”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Will throws up his hands and stands from the table. “I don’t want you or anyone going near that girl’s head. Do you understand?! The games you and I played for years, they’re gone now, Hannibal. They’re finished.”

Hannibal remains quiet. After he’s certain that Will won’t have another outburst, he takes a steady breath. “Do you think I would cause harm to her?”

Will’s exhale is shaky. “You caused harm to me.”

The answer settles between them. Will picks up his plate and marches into the kitchen. Hannibal hears the plate clattering into the sink, followed by quick and heavy footsteps going out into the hallway. Before silence has a chance to settle over him, his ears prick at the sound of soft clicking against the floorboards.

Dante patters into the dining room, tail slowly wagging. He’s followed by Cato who raises his nose into the air and sniffs. Hannibal drops his hand down, smiling minutely when the dog pushes his muzzle into Hannibal’s palm. Cato joins him. While Dante has always been Will’s and Emilia’s dog, Cato has always followed Hannibal’s heels.

“Go check on your sister. She’s not having a great time recently and might need you both,” he pets the dogs' heads. Cato huffs a breath before turning and trotting back out of the dining room and into the hallway. Dante peers up at Hannibal, resting his chin on the man’s thigh. Usually, he would have pushed him off. The dog is starting to moult with age. He scratches the dog behind his pointed ears and waves him away.

Hannibal gathers the plates and glasses and starts putting them in the dishwasher. He places what remains of Emilia’s dinner in a plastic box and seals it tightly. Washing up takes more time than it usually does as thoughts start to swarm his head. He’s always been so meticulous about what he allows to surface. But now, now his mind resembles a war ground.

By the time he’s finished, the sun has fully set and the moon starts to rise. Streaks of purple and red still linger on the cityscape horizon, casting little light into the apartment. Taking one look down the hallway, he spots that Emilia’s door is closed out fully. _Gone to bed, then_ , he thinks. He switches off all of the lights and makes sure the windows and doors are locked and bolted before slowly making his way to his own bedroom.

Will sits at the foot of their bed, elbows resting on his knees and face buried in his hands. From the trembling of his shoulders, Hannibal can see that he’s holding back sobs. Something heavy drops into his stomach and his heart constricts tightly. He gently closes the door behind him, and takes tentative steps into their room. Will doesn’t move when Hannibal kneels down in front of him.

“I’m truly sorry for everything I have done to you, Will,” Hannibal says softly, reaching up to pry Will’s hands away from his face. He takes in a small breath when he sees a tear running down Will’s cheek. “Emilia wants to know what happened that night. I already told her that we can fill in any gaps of consciousness, but she’s insistent that she wants to see for herself.”

Hannibal slowly reaches up to run the back of his index finger along Will’s cheekbone. The other man’s eyes fall closed at the touch. “I know you’re afraid, _mano meile_ , but you know how stubborn that girl is. When she has an idea in her head, she can’t be dissuaded.”

“Something will happen,” Will rasps, a deep frown etching into his brow. “I’ve seen what the mind can do when it’s prodded, and I don’t want that happening to her.” Will slowly opens his eyes and stares right at Hannibal. They stay in silence for a moment. Eventually, Will pulls away from Hannibal’s touch, shoving himself back further on to the bed. Hannibal rises, wincing as joints crack.

“Do what you want,” Will sighs, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stands and shuffles to the walk-in closet on the other side of the room. Hannibal hears him moving around, but makes no move to follow him.

When Will comes back, he’s in a soft sleep shirt and baggy pants drawn in at the waist by a drawstring. He runs his fingers through his short curls.

“You can be there with her, if you wish,” Hannibal says, watching Will slide into bed. The younger man grabs a couple of pillows and moves them around. When he settles, it’s with a tired and heavy sigh. Hannibal’s own bones start to feel tired as he shifts his gaze to his side of the bed.

Will turns his back to Hannibal. “You’re the psychiatrist, Doctor. Do whatever you want.”

 

* * *

 

 

Hannibal finishes getting his office ready. He moves both his and Will’s chair from his desk into the middle of the room, almost two meters apart. He wants to be close enough to Emilia to help, but doesn’t want to have Emilia feel crowded either. The curtains are open, letting bright midday light spill into the room. Will stalks around the room with his hands in his pockets. He watches Hannibal closely.

There’s a soft knock on the door. Will regards his husband for a moment before turning to the door. “Come in,” he calls out. Emilia steps into the room. She looks as meek as she had done during dinner. Will turns his body towards one of the windows, glancing out on to the courtyard outside littered with people.

“Are you ready, _dovana_?” At Emilia’s nod, Hannibal gestures to Will’s usual chair. “Take a seat.”

Emilia slowly takes measured steps into the room. She’s never been so fearful of Hannibal’s office. When she reaches her Dad’s chair, she spots his sweater draped over one of the arms. _Grounding_ , she notes, reaching out to touch it. The material is soft and worn. He’s had it for as long as she can remember.

There’s a rhythmic ticking of a clock perched upon one of the walls. She glances at it, noting the time. When she takes her seat, so does her father. Will stays standing a couple of feet away.

Hannibal crosses on leg over the other, and rests his joined hands on the top of his knee. She’s never seen him like this: as a psychiatrist. He practised while they lived in Munich. She used to sit on the staircase of their home, watching his office door from between the banister beams. She wasn’t ever interested in his patients. She just wanted to know when he would be done for the day so that he could play with her.

Now, though, looking at him opposite her, it’s disconcerting.

She shifts in her chair slightly, bringing her hands together to stop them from wringing together. “So, how does this work?”

“We’ll start with establishing something you might need to come back to, if things start to get too much,” her Papa says firmly. His eyes are different, she notices. They aren’t her Papa’s eyes, but someone else’s. “I want you to say your name, the current time, and where you are.”

Will watches the exchange closely. He remembers sessions like this: when he and Hannibal were different.

Emilia shifts against her seat again. The fabric of her Dad’s sweater rubs against her bare forearm. She rests her hand on the fabric. “My name is Emilia Graham-Lecter. It’s 12:32 pm and I’m in my Papa’s study in Florence.”

Hannibal nods firmly. “Good. Repeat that if you feel like a memory is becoming too much.”

Emilia nods in understanding. She takes a second to look over to her Dad. Even through the harsh sunlight coming in through the window, she can make out a strained, but reassuring, smile on his lips.

“Close your eyes,” Hannibal instructs. Papa’s voice is starting to come through slightly, she notices as her eyelids flicker shut. An instructive voice that sounds like the one used to teach her how to count, and to write, and to cook. With her eyes closed, she presses her back slightly against the leather back of the chair. She feels the material against her back, the back of her thighs and legs. Her sock-clad feet press firmly against the floorboards underneath her. She’s still in Florence. She’s still at home.

“Take a moment. Let everything settle around you.” She focuses on her Papa’s voice. Already, thoughts are trying to distract her. Mundane ones like when to go back to Santoro’s, or is she going to the market with Dad tomorrow, or what Marco is doing right now. She shakes them all away.

“What do you see?”

Her Papa’s voice is so familiar to her that it’s acting as a guide. The darkness that has surrounded her eventually dissolves, and the first thing she notices isn’t a sight, but a smell. “Salt,” she mumbles. The entire town of Atrani smelt like the sea. Every street she remembers walking down seemed to smell like the beach. It burned the inside of her nose. Even when pastries or candy were handed to her, it doesn’t get rid of the salty air around.

The next thing to come is a sound. The sounds of the ocean suddenly fill her ears – waves lapping gently.  The ground underneath her starts to sway. She’s not on the cobblestone streets anymore. It’s the boat.

“I’m on the boat,” she mumbles, tilting her head slightly. Each wave that laps against the boat gently sways the ground beneath her. When she opens her eyes, she frowns. She’s shorter now, eye-level with the ledge of a cabinet. “I’m five again.”

“That’s natural.” Instead of her Papa’s voice coming from in front of her, it’s only in one ear now. She turns her head and sees him standing beside her. He looks down at her. “You’re mind is placing you back in the moment. It’s transporting you back into the younger version of yourself.”

It’s odd. Her sixteen-year-old body presses even more firmly against the chair she’s in, but the five-year-old her starts to walk through the cabin.

“What else do you see?” Hannibal follows her closely, being a reassuring presence just behind her.

She looks around. “It must be night-time.”

“And how do you know that?”

“The lights are on.” Overhead, the hanging bulbs sway as the boat gently rocks with each wave. She continues to glance around. She remembers the boat being bigger, but then again, she was so small back then. With every step she takes around below deck, she sees things more clearly: crisp lines and bright colours all distorted by pillows and sheets that are strung around on the ground and over the edges of couches. On one of the coffee tables are a collection of coloured glass bottles. Most of them are empty. “They were partying,” she says slowly, tilting her head to get a better look at the rows of shot glasses lined up around the bottles. On the table itself, the glass is smeared by a dusting of white powder.

Her brow furrows. Warmth suddenly settles on her shoulder.

She glances over and sees her Papa’s hand.

Over the sound of the ocean, she hears something else. Her ears prick at a sharp smashing sound.

Her fingers tighten on the arms of the chair.

Will straightens from his place within the study. Hannibal holds up his hand. “What is it, Emilia?” he asks gently.

She frowns, listening for the sound again. Within a couple of seconds, it shatters the air around her again. “Glass,” she shudders, “glass breaking.”

“From where?”

She clenches her eyes shut, listening for a sound that is only within her mind. “Above deck,” she says slowly. The small staircase that leads up above deck is lit with spotlights. Outside, she spots the night sky.

Her Papa continues to be a presence just behind her. He reaches for her shoulder again, squeezing gently. She bites the inside of her cheek and starts walking to the staircase. With every step she takes, noises from above deck become clearer.

 _“Why would I make that up, Francesco?”_ a male voice finds its way down the stairs. It’s enough to make Emilia pause on the stairs, mid-step. “ _There are fucking **cannibals** in this city._ ”

A loud throaty laugh shatters through the air. “ _Honestly George._ ” There’s a pause, followed by another chuckle. _“I’ve never not known an American to be hysterical when it comes to devising theories about killers-”_

 _“They’re not **theories** , Francesco! I saw them!”_ The man’s voice is starting to grow taut. Emilia tightens her hold on the staircase banister and continues to step up on to the top deck. The cold air outside prickles her exposed arms. Above deck is just as destroyed as the rest of the yacht. A high perch holds the steering wheel and commands for the yacht, but most of the deck is a lounging area. Cushions of seats are stung about, with a small nest of them to one side. Lounging against a collection of blankets and pillows is a stout man dressed in a sheer white linen shirt and shorts. To his side is a slender woman, golden hair falling down on to a bare shoulder. Her light dress rides up slightly on her thigh, but she grabs a blanket and covers her legs from the sudden chill.

Emilia swallows a lump forming in her throat.

“I see them,” she mumbles. Her breath is shaky. “Francesco and Aurora.”

Hannibal’s presence isn’t behind her anymore. The warmth that had been resting on her shoulder slowly ebbs away with every gust of open ocean wind. When she glances around, she notes at how expansive the ocean seems to be. If it wasn’t for the bright moon highlighting the divide between the black ocean and the black sky, she would mistake them for being one.

She’s never felt so alone in her life.

There’s another man – American, she notes from his accent – pacing around the deck, stepping over the mess and running his fingers through a mop of black hair. “We should just pick up anchor and go,” he says. His voice grows in pitch. “Because there is no goddamn way I am going back to that city when those **monsters** are there-“

Francesco snorts. “I’ve seen reports of these monsters, George. They died back in America. Why would they be all the way out here?”

At that, the other man stops. “Because they wouldn’t be found out here!” His voice shatters the last remaining piece of silence within the air. Aurora visibly winces from the sound, looking down at her fingers that pick at the blanket on her legs.

Emilia takes another step. It’s enough movement to make them aware of her place there. Francesco is the first to look over. When his dark eyes meet hers, all air leaves her lungs in a harsh exhale.

_My name is Emilia Graham-Lecter. It’s 12:32 pm and I’m in my Papa’s study in Florence._

_My name is Emilia Graham-Lecter. It’s 12:32 pm and I’m in my Papa’s study in Florence._

_My name is Emilia Graham-Lecter. It’s 12:32 pm and I’m in my Papa’s study in Florence._

_My name is Emilia Graham-Lecter. It’s 12:32 pm and I’m in my Papa’s study in Florence._

A harsh frown embeds deep into Francesco’s forehead. He waves a ring-laden hand towards her. “The girl is up again, Aurora,” he scoffs, turning back to the other man. “Deal with her.”

Emilia glances towards the other man. He almost looks alarmed at the child. Almost like he forgot that there was one on board.

Aurora’s head snaps over to Emilia, and she flings the woollen blanket over her legs off and is up from the couch in less than a second. The look in her eyes is almost one of relief. “Oh, _piccola_ , what are you doing up so late?”

“Nightmare.” The reply leaves Emilia’s mouth without her thinking about it. It must have been what she said that night. The memory is playing around her, and she’s being swept along.

Aurora reaches out and scoops her up into her arms. The woman’s perfume almost burns the inside of Emilia’s nostrils. “I’ll be back in a minute. I just need to put her down.”

Francesco waves his hand again, and continues his conversation with George. Emilia feels a soft breath leave Aurora’s nose as she adjusts the girl in her arms. “Come on then, _piccola_ ,” she says a bright more brightly, “let’s get you to bed.”

Over Aurora’s shoulder, Emilia locks eyes with George. The man looks so different to Francesco and Aurora. He looks manic with anxiety, shaking his leg now that he’s stopped pacing around the yacht. She continues to hold his gaze until Aurora takes her down the staircase to below deck. She softly rocks Emilia in her arms, humming a tune.

Emilia tightens her fingers around the arms of the chair.

“She’s taking me back to bed.” As she’s brought further and further away from the opening to above deck, she notices how darker the sky seems to be. “I think I stay there.”

When they reach Emilia’s cabin, Aurora gently pulls away the tossed sheets and places the child down to bed. She laughs softly when Emilia’s arms don’t move from around her neck.

“Why are you keeping her here?” Hannibal’s voice returns.

“I...I don’t know,” Emilia says slowly. “I remember having a nightmare – something stupid, I think. I want her to stay with me for a bit.”

She hears Hannibal hum. “Maybe you knew something was going to happen.”

Emilia shakes her head. “Something’s off about George, but I don’t think that was it.”

Aurora does stay for a moment when she manages to untangle Emilia from her. She perches herself on the edge of Emilia’s bed, running thin fingers through Emilia’s hair, singing softly. As Emilia’s eyelids droop, she sees Aurora turn her head towards the open door. A slight frown settles on her brow.

“ _Mamma_?” The word leaves Emilia’s mouth as a whine as she reaches out with chubby hands.

Aurora turns back with a forced smile. She hushes the girl softly, tugging the sheets up to Emilia’s chin. “Sleep, _piccola_ ,” she whispers, leaning down to kiss Emilia’s forehead. There’s warmth where Aurora’s lips touch her forehead. Emilia clenches her eyes shut.

Outside of the room, she hears noise. Shouting.

“This is ridiculous George!” Francesco’s voice is almost muffled, but she can still make it out. “We’re not moving and that’s final! Go if you want, but if you ever need supplies again-”

“-You’re cutting me off?! I’m trying to save our asses, you idiot! We go back to that city and we could be killed!”

Aurora tucks some sheets around Emilia’s body, almost sealing her to the bed. “Goodnight _tesoro_.” Aurora stands up from the bed and walks to the door. She pauses and sends a small smile over her shoulder to the girl, before closing the door behind her.

When the door closes, darkness settles around her. She doesn’t dare move a muscle.

“Aurora!” George shouts. Emilia startles. His voice is a lot clearer than it had been. It’s as if she is standing out there with them. “Aurora tell your stupid husband that we need to go!”

Emilia hears Francesco bark a harsh laugh. “Go on then, _amore_ , tell me what we should do.”

“I don’t know-”

“There you have it, she doesn’t know!” Francesco states. “Now, we’re going to _stay here_ and enjoy the rest of this vacation. God knows I need it.”

“You lazy sack of shit, you don’t know what you’re doing,” George growls. “Those monsters have traumatised an entire county, an _entire state_! You can’t go anywhere in the States without hearing new reports about what they’ve done!”

Emilia doesn’t hear Aurora’s voice again. There’s more shouting by both of the men, broken by glass shattering as bottles are thrown, she can only presume. She locks her muscles in place. Everything in her mind is telling her to stay.

“George,” Francesco says after another glass cracks. “George! You’re out of your fucking mind, _Stronzo!_ ”

“George, what are you doing?” Aurora’s voice is a welcome calm among the shouting, but there’s something running through it. Fear, Emilia notices with a heavy drop in her stomach.

“They’re going to kill us if we go back!” George’s voice breaks around his words. “You don’t know what they do: they’re monsters! We can’t go back, we can’t! Please, can we just go? Please?!”

“George!-”

There’s more noise outside, heavy movement. Footfalls and something else, Emilia thinks.

Then, suddenly, nothing.

There’s a stretch of silence and darkness that engulfs her and her room for what seems like years. It’s broken by the muffled soft footsteps of someone outside.

The lock of her door clicks, shattering the silence, and the door slides open. A figure stands at the doorway, looking into the room with a harrowed look on her face and a bloodied hand.

 _Dad_.

“Dad,” Emilia sobs. The word is wretched out from her throat.

Will almost scuffs the floorboards of the study with how quickly he bolts towards Emilia.  

 ** _But he isn’t a monster_** , the child mind thinks.

The older version of herself frowns deeply within Hannibal’s office. _Of course he isn’t a monster_.

The little girl pulls the blanket up to her knees. **_The man said that there were monsters_**.

 _Oh,_ Emilia’s breath leaves her in a harsh exhale, _no, no he’s not. Neither of them is._

She feels a hot tear stream down her cheek.

When Dad takes a step into the room, everything is jerked suddenly away. She experiences a moment of distorted tunnel vision before she’s kicked out of her mind’s image and back into the present. Her fingers are tightly curled around the leather arms of the chair, and the heels of her feet hurt from digging into the floor.

Within seconds, one of her hands is covered by her Dad’s. He reaches around her shoulders and pulls her to his side, muttering nonsense into her temple. She can barely hear him over the sounds of her own panting breath.

“Dad,” she sobs, unclenching her hands from the arms of the chair and wrapping her arms around her Dad’s shoulders. Despite being a teenager, Will has no problem with hauling Emilia’s sagging body from the chair and on to the ground with him.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. You’re safe. You’re with us.”

Emilia clenches her eyelids shut, burying her face into her Dad’s shoulder. _I’m safe_ , she thinks.

_I’m with them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finished college. Yeet? But more time for reading and writing. Yeet!
> 
> But I am starting work again tomorrow. I know that I always say "hey, this thing is done now so I have more time to write!" every time something ends, but listen, now with college over I do want to spend more time writing and honing my craft so prepare to get a lot of shit from me.
> 
> Also, would anyone be interested in reading separate drabbles concerning the Murder Family? I'm thinking of having this work plus separate small drabble works as a series. I realised recently that I would like to backtrack slightly and show scenes of the Murder Family's lives together, but they weren't substantial enough to warrant going into this work. Would anyone be interested?
> 
> Emilia Graham-Lecter is about to do some Badass Shit.
> 
> Again, comments and kudos are more than welcome! My Tumblr is yourqueenforayear.tumblr.com


	20. Florence, Italy

The Uffizi Gallery is busy. Emilia watches the summer tourists flow in and out of the gallery, some stopping to glance up at the architecture. Sitting on one of the benches in the outside courtyard, she flips her phone a couple of time in her hand. With the sun perched high in the sky, the courtyard is almost flooded with people wandering around. The other benches are taken up with couples and tourists, and the swelling noise of people chattering is almost too much.

She looks down at her phone. The Marco’s message from earlier in the morning is still on the screen. She didn’t bother clicking it away.

_Meet me by Uffizi. I want you to meet someone :)_

It took almost two hours to convince both Papa and Dad to let her go out. It was almost another hour to convince her to go without being accompanied by either of them. She’s fine, she kept saying over and over again. It’s true.

To an extent. Some nights since the therapy session have been bad. Nightmares plague her during the night, not letting her sleep. On occasion, when she has slept, she’ll wake up screaming and either her Papa, Dad, or both of them running into her room. They’ll stay for a while, waiting for her to get back to sleep, but she never does.

Her grip tightens on her phone. It feels like she’s opened a Pandora’s Box inside of her head. Information about that night swirls around her brain: even when she tries to think of something else, it always worms its way forward.

A group of tourists led by a middle-aged man in bright primary coloured clothing walks into the courtyard, and Emilia watches them closely. She’s honed her ability to watch people and their mannerisms over the past couple of years. She’s done it to her fathers ever since she was little. Being quiet and not particularly talkative, she liked to observe people around her.

The group is loud, and their chattering only gets absorbed into the cacophonous noise surrounding her.

“Sofia?”

She whips her head around and spots Marco weaving through the crowds. Beside him is an elderly woman, probably in her late-70s, with grey hair pulled back into a messy bun, and a weathered face. She has an arm interlinked with Marco’s as they navigate through the last of the crowd.

Emilia stands up from her bench and dusts her hands down the front of her jacket.

Marco smiles at her. “Have you been here long?”

“No, no, not long at all,” she lies.

Her gaze moves from Marco to the woman at his side. She’s at least half of his height – maybe a head shorter than Emilia is. But she has a stocky figure and, when Emilia sees her outstretch a hand, it’s worn skin from work. “This is my _nonna_ ,” Marco smiles even more brightly. Emilia shakes the woman’s hand. Her skin is warm, she notes, and the grip is firm.

“Ah, so _you’re_ the _ragazza_ who has swept my Marco off of his feet!” the woman says brightly. Marco almost balks beside the elderly woman, his eyebrows rising almost to his hairline.

Emilia can feel a warm blush settling along her cheeks.

The woman laughs and waves her hand. “Don’t be shy about it, darlings! Love is a wonderful thing-”

“- _Nonna,_ ” Marco admonishes, turning slightly to mutter into her ear.

 _This must be what’s normal_ , Emilia thinks to herself. _What other teenagers experience._ As she watches both Marco and his grandmother bicker between themselves, she allows a small smile to curl along her lips. After a minute, Marco clears his throat. “Okay,” he says as he glances at Emilia, “that’s not why I wanted you to meet her, but-”

“-And here I was thinking that you had found the perfect girl, _tesoro_ -”

“- _Nonna!_ ”

Emilia lets a laugh bubble up from her throat.

 

* * *

 

 

Miriam lives just outside the main city of Florence. Emilia’s never been out this far before. With her arm linked with Marco’s, she glances around her: taking in two neat parallel rows of townhouses. It looks like the streets of the main city, but the brickwork is more chipped and faded. This neighbourhood doesn’t look like the one she lives in. The penthouse that her fathers’ bought is situated among other towering buildings, but she’s never known any of her neighbours to greet her.

As they walk down the sidewalk, neighbours tending to pots of flowers in the front of their own houses greet Miriam and Marco as they pass. It seems like somewhere else entirely.

Miriam’s house is just like the others: a two-story townhouse with steps up to a burgundy-coloured wooden door. The house itself has Italian architecture motifs and designs. Emilia compares it to some buildings in the main city – buildings like the Gallery.

Miriam waves them in. “I’ll get dinner ready, and then we can talk,” she assures Emilia as she and Marco enter the house. Almost instantly she’s hit with a pungent smell of something slowly simmering on the cooker. The interior of the house reflects what kind of person Emilia has always imagined Miriam to be: someone warm and who loves her family. Pictures of her husband and children and grandchildren line one wall of the hallway. On the other side is a small flight of stairs that lead upstairs to a landing. Emilia peers at the pictures before Marco ushers her forward and into a kitchen. It’s a brightly lit room, with midday sun spilling in through large windows just above the sink. On a collection of hobs, pots and pans brim and bubble with what she presumes to be dinner. The smells wafting around the kitchen almost make her toes curl.

“I’m sorry about her,” Marco suddenly mumbles, “she’s...she’s funny.”

When Emilia turns to face him, she smiles softly at how he rubs the back of his neck. It’s a nervous tick he’s always had. “That’s alright,” she replies, “Dad does the same.”

Marco arches an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” she says, taking a seat at a worn and long dinner table in the middle of the kitchen. Looking down at it, it looks nothing like her Papa would have: she spots flour caked and etched into nooks in the table. She runs her fingers along it.

“I’d like to meet him. And your other dad. I didn’t get much of a chance to, last time,” he trails off. He sits down next to her. “Do they still hate me?” he jokes lightly.

“No, no, they don’t hate you,” Emilia breathes, “ever since you brought me home safe, I think my Dad worships the ground you walk on. Papa...admires you, in his own way.”

Miriam enters the kitchen and plucks an apron from a clothing rack on the wall. She ties it around her stocky frame and turns to her pots. She removes one from the heat, opening the lid and waving her hand through the billowing steam that rises up. “ _Bellissimo_ ,” she almost seems to mutter to herself before doing the same with the other pots.

Emilia watches her carefully. Papa’s cooking is precise, almost like surgery. Dad told her that Papa used to be a surgeon. She remembers how much sense it made: his movements either in the kitchen or in regular life seemed to measured and controlled. Miriam’s movements are flowing, like a dancer’s.

“Did you ever dance, _Signora Alfonsi_?” she suddenly asks.

It gets a barking laughter out of Miriam. “You can call me by my first name, dear, and yes, I used to dance.”

“Waltz?”

At that, Miriam turns around. “You’re very observant, aren’t you?”

Emilia smiles faintly. “I like watching people: how they move, how they interact with each other. I don’t know why, it’s just what my brain does sometimes.”

Miriam hums. “A very valuable skill to have,” she notes, turning back to the cooker and turning off the rest of the pans. She claps her hands together. “We’ll have dinner, and then we’ll discuss whatever it is Marco says you want to discuss.”

Emilia shoots a glance over to Marco. He’s already out of his chair, making his way to the oven to help plate up dinner.

Dinner is _Tagliatelle Funghi Procini e Tartufo_. Emilia makes a mental note to ask Papa to make it sometime. Miriam puts the pan containing the pasta and mushrooms in the centre of the table, nestled on a tablecloth, with a ladle popping out of it. She gestures to the pot once Emilia has almost finished one plate. “Help yourself, my dear. Plenty of food to go around.”

Marco smirks at her over the pot and fills his plate again. Between the pasta and the basket laden with bread between them, she can feel her stomach quickly filling up.

The dinner passes as they speak idly with each other. As Miriam and Marco bicker between the two of them like family members do, Emilia watches. She vaguely thinks about her own family unit at home: how her Dad and her bicker constantly, how she speaks Lithuanian with her Papa in conversations just between the two of them.

When everything is cleared from the table, Miriam disappears down the hallway, leaving both Emilia and Marco alone.

“Again, I’m sorry about her,” he huffs, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s....a lot.”

Emilia lets a smile curl along her lip. “Marco, really, it’s fine.”

Marco joins her at the table, taking the seat beside her. The house is small enough for them both to listen to the sounds of Miriam moving about upstairs. Emilia casts a quick glance up to the ceiling.

“I told her that you wanted to know about the Romano case,” he says quietly, “if that’s okay with you.”

Something pangs in her chest. It always does whenever the name is mentioned. _Her name_ , something in her mind hisses.

Emilia shrugs a shoulder. “That’s okay with me,” she smiles softly.

Miriam comes back within a few minutes with a worn cardboard box clutched to her chest. “Now, _bambini_ , let’s see what we have,” she says as she places the box on the dining table. Inside is a collection of papers, files, photos. She glances inside as Miriam starts sorting through the contents, pulling out a couple of sheets stapled together.

“Marco says that you want to know about that missing persons’ case?” Miriam says as moves the box to one side and starts spreading out all of the files. Emilia watches her closely. The movements are like something from her Dad. She remembers how he used to spread out reports of his and Papa’s disappearance on their own dining tables, examining every single page closely, making sure that no one was able to follow them.

“Yeah,” Emilia eventually answers after a slight pause. “We walked by a mural near the Piazza della Signoria. Marco mentioned the case.”

Miriam hums, shuffling a couple of pages before setting them down. “An interest in criminology, then?” The corners of her mouth turn upwards slightly.

Emilia nods. She bites the inside of her cheek, stopping anything else from spilling out. Miriam looks down at a couple of files. “Well,” she says, running her eyes over everything on the table, “where do you want to start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long. 
> 
> I finished college (YAY), but had to apply for an IGrade (a repeat assessment for an exam) because I ended up having a Meltdown during the exam itself lol. Add to that the stress of starting work again wherein everyone is suddenly very salty this year for some reason so I'm having to deal with Everyone's Drama, and everything is just stressful. 
> 
> So apologies. The next installment is being written as I type this.


	21. Florence, Italy

The Romano case was extensively covered. Emilia realises this when the dining table can’t hold the spread of files and reports and pictures, and they start having to be placed on the seats of dining chairs and even the floor. She keeps a watch on the sky outside. Her fathers will expect her home at some point – preferably before it gets dark. They’ve been less inclined to let her out of the house since the therapy session. She understands why. She doesn’t even trust herself these days to be alone. But with Marco and in a setting like Miriam’s house, maybe she’ll be okay.

Miriam explains things as they’re laid out. She points at a couple of worn and tattered pictures of the Atrani bay. She vaguely remembers the outline of the coast, and the boats that bob gently with every wave. Her fathers didn’t stay long in Atrani after that night. They moved within a couple of days.

Miriam’s face softens slightly when they move on to a picture of a blond-haired woman with an angular face. “Giovanna,” she says, plucking up the picture. It looked to be a picture clipped from a newspaper. Miriam hands it over towards Emilia, and for a second, her fingers shake as she takes the picture.

Marco watches her look down intently at the photograph. In it, Giovanna Romano looks nothing like she normally would: in every photo, Emilia has seen of the woman, the heiress looks impeccably put together. In the picture in Emilia’s hands, she sees streams of tears caught mid-roll down her sharp cheekbones, the whites of her eyes red and bloodshot, while strands of her dark-blond hair stick out at odd angles from a messy bun. Emilia’s heart clenches. She can see the pain in Giovanna’s eyes. The woman stands at a podium, with INTERPOL in embossed letterings in front of it. To her right, almost plastered to her side, is a stern-faced man with greying hair and tired eyes.

Emilia frowns. “Who’s this?” she asks Miriam.

Miriam takes a quick look and sets her jaw. “A private investigator Giovanna had employed,” she says. “Mazza, I think his name was. I don’t remember his first name. He stayed on the investigation for a while.”

Miriam almost barks a laugh. “He has half of the Romano fortune.”

Emilia tilts her head and looks closely at the man in the picture. They seem to be at a conference of some kind: inside an artificially lit room that only darkens the shadows underneath Giovanna’s eyes and sunken-in features. The man just looks threatening. His face is stern as he looks out on to the apparent photographers and news reporters who are behind the photo. He looks so different from the police officers who frame the two of them. Where they are in pristine uniform with hair slicked back, he’s in a light, rumpled suit with messed hair.

“Who has the other half?” Emilia finds herself asking.

Miriam starts looking for something among the pile. She takes a moment to find it. “Some reporter,” she mumbles as she moves files out of the way. She sighs sharply through her nose. “I’m afraid I can’t find a picture of her. I don’t remember her name, but I know that she wasn’t Italian. She was flown out by Giovanna for the investigation.”

Emilia raises an eyebrow. “Odd that someone looking for their family would hire a reporter rather than another detective.”

Marco stands from the table and walks over to the sink. Emilia watches him from the corner of her eye.

Miriam grabs the back of a chair and pulls it out, sitting down heavily into it with a sigh. “It was an odd case, _caro_. And this reporter had apparently studied a lot of odd cases during her career.” There’s a pause that falls around the kitchen. The only sound that breaks it is Marco washing out a couple of glasses from dinner. Miriam toys with the edge of the tablecloth. “Some people said that it was an accident. Other people said that foul-play was involved.”

“What do you think?” Emilia asks quietly.

Miriam turns her mouth downwards before sighing from her nose. “It was a story that was in the news for months. Giovanna made sure to keep it publicised. I remember turning on the television every single evening and seeing some report pop up.” She looks down at the files again. “I, like everyone else, know something happened on that boat.”

Emilia nods slowly. “It’s a tragedy that no one knows what happened.” Her words are measured. Miriam nods almost solemnly. From his place near the sink, Marco plucks two glasses and walks back to Emilia’s side. “Do you want something to drink?”

Emilia smiles. “Water, please.”

Marco leans forward and places a chaste kiss against her cheekbone. Heat from the contact blooms through her skin, almost sinking into her facial muscles. She clears her throat slightly and looks down at the photo in her hand.

Emilia spends almost an hour and a half combing through everything Miriam has on the case. The only thing she really knows for certain is that Miriam had an interest in the case, alongside most of the Amalfi Coast. When she leaves Miriam’s house, she lingers in the hallway, waiting for Marco to grab a coat from upstairs. Miriam bundles Emilia into a hug. “Sweet girl,” she pulls back and frames Emilia’s face between her hands. “It was so good to meet you.”

A bright smile curls along Emilia’s lips. “Thank you for dinner. And for talking to me about the Romano case.”

Miriam waves a hand. “I’m always happy to help stoke interest.”

Marco strolls down the stairs, and pauses midway down when he spots the two women in the hallway. “Everything okay?” he raises an eyebrow.

“Just talking about you,” Emilia smiles and eases away from Miriam.

 

* * *

 

 

The research didn’t stop when she got home. Emilia lets herself in with her key and softly locks the door behind her. Even with it being early evening by the time she gets home, there’s no sign of her fathers. She leaves her bag on a hook by the door and toes off her shoes, kicking them to the side.

“Papa?” she calls out into the empty entrance hallway. When she reaches the kitchen, she sticks her head into the room. “Dad?”

There’s a small folded note on the island in the middle of the kitchen. She picks it up as both Dante and Cato slowly stride into the kitchen from whatever room they were holed up in. She reaches down and pets both dogs on the head before reaching for the note.

_Gone to the opera with your Father. Don’t expect to be home any time soon if he has his way. Everything you need for a dinner is in the fridge. – Dad_

Emilia smiles softly before crumpling the note and tossing it into the bin. Both dogs keep close to her legs as she walks down the hallway and towards her own room. She doesn’t think her fathers will be home before midnight, knowing Papa, so she shuts herself away in her room for the night. The dogs join her, each hopping up on to her bed and curling up by her side.

 

* * *

 

 

The glow of her laptop screen illuminates her room. Outside, the soft orange glow of street lamps pushes back the darkness. She rubs at her eyes, starting to hurt now because of the strain. After covering them for a moment, she adjusts herself and continues to file through reports made online. They all date from the year of or after that night.

She scrolls through another loading-screen of the presumably hundredth variation of her search. All of the headlines popping up are starting to blur together: _Pharmaceutical Heiress Distraught After Search for Missing Sister_ , _Romano Family Grieve Over Loss of Head of Marketing_ , _Foul Play or Accident?: What Happened to Francesco and Aurora Esposito?_

Emilia rubs at her eyes. She’s starting to distance herself from the case. With every new headline she reads, she doesn’t feel the stab of heartache in her chest. Now, she scans her eyes over every line on the screen, looking for something new.

It takes almost another hour until something pops up. She catches a headline, not written like the others, and it makes her straighten up. She draws her laptop closer, squinting her eyes against the bright screen.

An article printed under an American domain. It’s buried among them, but it’s there. In different coloured text, right under the link itself, is its publication date. _2017_.

She frowns. Why is someone reporting on it almost a year afterwards when everyone else has given up? _Probably Giovanna or the police hanging on_ , she thinks before she reaches for her trackpad to scroll on.

And then she takes in the headline. _Missing Link in the Italian Missing Person’s Case: Murder Husbands Believed to be Honeymooning on Amalfi Coast._

Her frown only deepens as she hovers over clicking into the article. It’s sensational. As she reads through it, she finds herself scoffing at how the incident has been reported. All of the usual information is there: who the Romanos were, who was supposedly onboard the ship, what could have happened. But then she gets to the next chunk of paragraphs.

**_A source, who told me to keep them anonymous for their own safety, informed me by email almost eighteen months ago that the FBI’s Most Wanted were honeymooning on the Amalfi Coast. You have to understand, dear Tattlers, that as a well-known reporter, I get information and leads like this flooding into my inbox almost daily. Especially with the abrupt disappearance (read: elopement) of the Murder Husbands. But this source was different, Tattlers. They were insisting that they were there. They sent me photographs to prove it._ **

Emilia’s stomach drops when she sees the pictures.

It’s her fathers. Younger versions of themselves – the Atrani versions of themselves – walking idly around the white-cobbled streets, pressed together. The photographs aren’t great: largely blurred as they seemed to have been snapped in a hurry. She almost doesn’t recognise them, but images of that night come flooding back to her.

Someone managed to identify them and snap a couple of pictures. Emilia brings her laptop closer to her, examining the article’s paragraphs line by line.

 _Surely...it couldn’t have been_ \- she thinks as she scans every word. _George? George already told someone that they were there?_

**_I’m sorry not to have investigated this lead. Maybe it would have led somewhere: and not to where the others have led. I’ve tried to contact that informant again and every email and phone call I send is always answered with silence._ **

**_The FBI continues to stalk around the county and state lines, sometimes lingering within airports. But I reckon they’re too late, Tattlers._ **

**_I think Hannibal the Cannibal and his Bridegroom have disappeared for good._ **

She pushes the laptop away from her, almost off of her lap and on to the bedding. The dogs’ heads pop up with the movement as she tries to gather her thoughts. At the end of the article, staring at her through the bright light in the otherwise darkness of her room, is:

 _Freddie Lounds._  
Journalist, Author.  
Contact: freddielounds@tattlecrime.com

Emilia stares at the screen until it lapses into rest mode. Her room is suddenly cast into darkness. _George told her_. Her mind rapidly pieces chunks of information together. _George told her that they were there, and she already knew them. She was **still** looking for them. A **journalist**?!_

She wants to know why. Why would a sensationalist journalist want to know about her fathers? She can understand their history as being a source of interest. Sure. But this...is something else. _This is an obsession_ , she thinks as she tentatively reaches for her laptop again and logs back in. The article is still on the screen. Willing her slightly shaking hand to still, she scrolls her cursor over the journalist’s email.

The article is old now, dating from a time that Emilia can barely remember. It makes her retract her hand slightly. Is the journalist still alive? A quick engine-search shows that she is. Does she still care about – and it takes a lot for Emilia not to scoff at the name – the Murder Husbands? Just below her Wikipedia profile promo is a list of novels all detailing her experiences with her fathers and the FBI. So...yes.

Emilia bites the inside of her cheek. The slight bloom of pain sobers her mind slightly. _What are you doing?_ The voice inside her head sounds a lot like her Dad.

She finds that a small smile is starting to curl along her lip. _If she wants to know about my fathers so badly,_ she thinks, scrolling back over to the journalist’s email, _then she can come and find out herself_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeet. Emilia Graham-Lecter about to do something either really cool or really dumb. (Spoiler: it's cool).
> 
> So, this might start getting confusing. Hannibal (the series) ended in 2015, so that's when I placed the Fall. A year later, Murder Husbands became Murder Husbands. A year after that (2017), Emilia had been found by Will, aged 5. The following events are happening in the near future. Just to have that pointed out before we move on. So this chapter is placed within 2028. How wild is that?
> 
> Also, if it appears like I'm mentioning things and then leaving them out and never addressing them again...well, two reasons for that:   
> 1) It's intentional: some of the stuff I've mentioned in this chapter (Freddie writing about the Romano case, for example), WILL be addressed...maybe in the next chapter? Who knows??  
> OR  
> 2) I'm a Forgetful and Lazy Idiot Who Doesn't Reread What She Wrote: This was started more than a year ago. I'm not going to remember every little thing. Sorry. 
> 
> Comments & Kudos always welcomed x


	22. Florence, Italy

It takes a week for a plan to formulate within her head.

It takes two weeks for that plan to start moving.

She finds her fathers in their usual evening spot: relaxing together on a couch in front of the fire, Papa idly reading while Dad rests against him, on the edge of sleep. Dinner had been quiet, with only small conversation made between Emilia and either of her fathers. They spoke between themselves instead, making plans to visit a new art collection that was visiting the Uffizi later on in the month. That dinner, for her, had been spent double-checking the emails on her phone. She spent an hour refreshing the page again and again before she almost cried with relief when it popped up: a confirmation email for two tickets to an opera opening within a week.

 _It would be a reason to get them out of the house_ , she thought when she had dragged Marco with her to the opera house to book tickets while they were wandering the city looking for something to do.

 ** _Or...it could just be a nice anniversary present for them? And you don’t have to do anything. At all._** Something else chimes in. She almost scoffs at the voice, startling the lady within the ticket booth slightly. Emilia had to hide her smile behind her scarf.

Now, she turns the envelope in her hand, fidgeting with it slightly as she enters the living room. The fire crackles and Vivaldi hums softly in the background. She almost feels intrusive as she clears her throat. “Tėtis? Dad?”

Will lifts his head from Hannibal’s shoulder.

She shifts her weight from foot to foot. The envelope suddenly feels like it weighs a tonne. She fidgets with it for a second before biting the inside of her cheek. “I was thinking,” she starts, finding the right words to use, “Marco and I walked past the opera house today, and we saw that a performance of _La Traviata_ is playing next week, and, well, I thought you’d like to go.”

At that, Hannibal looks up from his book. “ _La Traviata?_ What company is it, _dovana_?”

She shrugs. “I’m not sure,” she says slowly, because, in this giant web of connected lies, that’s the one truth she can say, “I just knew that you liked Verdi.”

“And it’s the only one your father seems to understand,” Hannibal chides, early a scoff from Will. Hannibal looks over to Emilia and smiles. “Thank you, _dovana_. Can I ask, though, what’s the occasion for this gift?”

Emilia just shrugs. “It’s your anniversary soon, and I thought that, you guys stay here with me most of the time, and, I don’t know, you deserve time to yourselves.”

“That’s so sweet,” Will replies, a confused look slowly settling over his face, “but I think what your Pops was implying was what are you getting out of us being gone?”

Emilia almost balks. “What? Can’t I just do something nice for my parents without expecting anything in return?”

Will’s raised eyebrow is enough of an answer for her to huff. “I don’t expect anything in return,” she says slowly, “I just...want you two to have a good time together, that’s all.”

Hannibal nudges Will, a small smile on his lips. “I do believe she’s being serious, _mano meile_.”

Will looks back at her. Instead of his usual teasing smirk, there’s a warm smile overtaking most of his face. “Alright, we’ll go.”

 

* * *

 

 

For the last few weeks, she starts and ends every day with checking her emails. When she has her phone with her, she checks them as often as she can then too.

Getting Freddie Lounds’ attention had been easy enough. Emilia vaguely remembers the article of hers that she read: waning about how everyone was coming to her with leads and there was just too many to choose from. Emilia thought the woman had been serious until the almost-instant reply she got to her own email.

Fair enough, Emilia _did_ start it with something along the lines of “hey, I know where those ‘Murder Husbands’ are because they stole me from that missing boat”. She left out enough information about herself to keep everything safe. Freddie wasn’t going to go off publishing something she didn’t really know a lot about yet. Emilia guessed what journalists could be like, but one email like her own was hardly worth a front-page on a website.

It did earn her a reply though.

Freddie asked her was she serious.

Emilia said she was.

It took a few days before emails became frequent. Every morning for almost a week, Emilia would wake up to a couple of emails from Freddie, asking if she could cite some of Emilia’s information in a new report she’s making, to a request for an interview.

It’s that email that grabbed Emilia’s attention. She tried not to let a wicked smile curl along her lips as she read it. She scans her eyes over every line before formulating a response.

“Can you meet with me?” Freddie asks in the closing lines of her latest email.

Emilia sits back against the headboard of her bed. Outside, Florence is as busy as it usually is for a weekday afternoon. From her bed, she can see the red slate roofs of neighbouring buildings. Turning her attention back to her laptop, the email sits there, staring at her.

Just below the last line is Freddie’s usual sign off. Underneath that, Emilia notes, is a phone number. She tilts her head. “She means it, then,” she thinks out loud. Looking over to her bedroom door, and finding it just cracked open, Emilia grabs her phone and rises from her bed. Faint smells and sounds drift up along the hallway outside. _Papa will have dinner ready soon_ , she thinks as she slowly, and carefully, closes her door with a **_click_**.

She turns and presses her back against the door. Embossed wooden carvings from the door press into the muscle of her back. It’s grounding.

She turns her phone a few times in her hand before unlocking it. Attached to the start of the number Freddie gives is a code. Emilia already recognised the number as an American one, but maybe, with the code, calling it should be fine. Once the number is typed out on her phone, she stares down at her screen for a moment.

She considers quickly running out to the streets, finding a phone-box, and using that instead. It’s what her fathers used to do. Eventually, the screen on her phone goes black.

A sharp knock on the door makes her jump. The phone falls out of her hand and on to the bed.

“Come in,” she almost coughs, placing a hand over her chest to stop her heart from hammering out of her chest.

The door is opened slightly and Will half-steps inside. “Your father told me to come and get you. Dinner is ready.”

Emilia doesn’t turn around to face him, but she nods. “Okay, yeah, I’ll be there in a sec.”

She doesn’t hear him go back into the hallway. She doesn’t hear the door close.

Emilia looks down at her laptop on the bed, still on, but screen at least facing towards her pillows and not him.

“You okay, Ems?”

She nods again. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just feeling a bit flighty, that’s all.”

There’s a silent pause. “ _Flighty_?”

At that, she turns around. “You know,” she shrugs her shoulders, “flighty.”

A small frown creases his forehead, but nods after a second. “Alright, then. You should probably talk to your father about that.”

Emilia forces a small smile on to her lips. “I will.”

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a phonebox in one of the less populated streets of Florence. With her fathers visiting a church on the other side of the city, she slips inside. She rolls up the sleeve of her jacket and checks her watch. 6:45 pm. It’s 12:45 pm in Baltimore. She fishes a piece of paper out of her pocket and unfolds it. The number on it belongs to Freddie. Emilia was careful to delete the email containing it before she left. Her laptop is in her room, locked with a password, and sitting on her desk. She knows neither of her parents would pry, but she can’t be too careful.

She unhooks the phone and takes one last look at the number. Pushing in a handful of coins and punching out the numbers, there’s a dialling tone coming through within a few seconds.

“Hello?” a voice suddenly comes from the other side.

“Ms Lounds?”

“Yes, speaking.” Her accent is harsh. Much harsher than her Dad’s. She supposes vaguely that maybe all of the years spent away from the states meant that his accent thinned slightly. But even her actual voice is grating against Emilia’s ear.

Regardless, Emilia forces a breath out of her. “Thank God,” her voice starts to wobble, “I’ve been trying to find a moment alone to call you, but, oh God, I’ve never had the opportunity-”

Freddie cuts her off. “Can I ask who’s calling? Or how you even got this number?”

Her tone is clipped. It almost throws Emilia off.

“Sorry! Sorry, my, uh, my name is Emilia! Emilia Romano! I’m the girl who you’ve been emailing,” she decreases the volume of her voice. She makes sure to cast a quick glance over her shoulder. Her fathers are on the other side of Florence. They left for the church five minutes before she left. Knowing her father, they won’t leave that church until service is over, and if it’s the same church as Emilia thinks it is, then they won’t be returning for a while.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. For a moment, Emilia thinks that Freddie may have just hung up, before her shrill voice is suddenly back. “Emilia, oh my God, is this really you?”

She tries her best not to roll her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, sorry about the silence over the last couple of days, but I just had to call you.”

“It’s okay.” She hears Freddie huff a laugh on the other end of the line. “You know, I had almost put the Romano case to bed before you started emailing me.”

Emilia sniffs. “Everyone has put the Romano case to bed. No one cares anymore.” She curls the telephone cord around her index finger. “But I know from your reports that a lot of your readers care about...them.”

There’s muffled shuffling on the other end of the line. “I’ve been looking for those two since they disappeared. You know how many people scoffed at the idea that they were involved in your family’s murder?”

Emilia’s gaze hardens. “I can only imagine.”

“And you say that they, what, stole you away?” Freddie’s voice holds some disbelief to it. It’s nothing like how she behaved over their emails where she begged for any information. _She must be thinking about reporting on it, then_ , Emilia faintly thinks. The thought brings a slight smile to her lips.

She makes sure to clear her throat. “Yeah, um, like I said before, I remember them storming my parents' yacht. My mum hid me in her closet. They found me, and, I don’t know, just took me with them.”

Freddie tisks. “You poor thing. And you’ve been a hostage for all this time?”

Emilia’s blood suddenly runs cold. _Is she recording this?_

“Ms Lounds, I have more to tell you,” she tries to keep her words steady, “and you said you wanted to meet with me.”

There’s a long pause on the other end this time. “I did say that, didn’t I?” There’s more shuffling before Freddie speaks again. “I want to tell your story, you poor girl. I can meet with you and, if it suits, we can do one interview.”

Emilia sniffs again. “One?”

“Just one,” Freddie reassures her, “one that will tell your story. Your family can get the rest they deserve. Your real family.”

Her heart constricts and she finds her fingers tightening around the phone. “Thank you, Freddie. Really, thank you.” She looks over her shoulder again, watching people idly stroll by. A man is walking to the phone-box, though. She huffs. “I’ll email you, later, I have to go.” She makes sure that these words are quick.

Freddie’s attitude on the other side changes just as drastically. “Of course, of course. I await our next conversation.”

Emilia allows a small smile to form on her lips before the man from before knocks on the telephone box window. “I look forward to it, Ms Lounds."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: whenever Emilia calls Hannibal Tėtis (Lithuanian for Father/Dad) instead of Papa, she's planning something. This chapter (while took long to write lol) is essentially me indulging Sneaky Emilia being Sneaky. And who knows, maybe a couple of chapters could be dedicated to Shooty Emilia being Shooty?


	23. Florence, Italy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PART 1: Emilia's Becoming.

Freddie Lounds was to arrive in the _Aeroporta de Firenze-Peretola_ around midday. Emilia made sure to wake with the sun that day, limbs trembling with the plan that was finally coming to a head. She got out of bed and dressed quicker than she usually would: earning cocked heads from the two dogs resting at the end of her bed. For this to work, she thinks as she strolls down the hallway towards the kitchen, everything needs to be perfect. Everything needs to be on time.

Both dogs trail after her, age making their movements slow and shuffling. In the kitchen, Emilia grabs a couple of pots and pans and rests them on ignited burners. While they heat up, she turns the coffee machine on and starts to grab ingredients from the fridge: a handful of eggs, a small packet of back bacon and a chain of plump sausages (from Papa’s butcher a few streets away, of course), and some bread for toast. Making breakfast for her fathers isn’t rare for her. When Papa first taught her to cook, she would stand at his side at every mealtime and be his trusted sous chef. She smiles faintly at the memories of her butchering any chance or hope of Papa’s meals being presented neat and tidy, but he never said anything. She throws the bacon and sausages in one plan, turning them occasionally to brown and cook through. At the smell, both Dante and Cato sit at the corner of the kitchen island, watching closely for any dropped scraps (a habit instilled in them from Dad). She cracks the eggs into a bowl and gives them a gentle whisk – Papa’s voice in her head, guiding her through what to turn and what cooks quickest. Within a few minutes, she has two clean white plates laden with browned bacon and sausage, and a portion of scrambled eggs. Between the two plates on a tray is a rack of toast, two mugs of steaming coffee – one black and the other with a splash of milk and laden with sugar. The dogs whine at the prospect of getting no breakfast – at which she chuckles. “Once they’re gone for the day,” she says quietly, as if they could hear her, “we’ll have a feast. Don’t worry.”

 

* * *

 

 

She’s learnt over the years to knock before entering her parents’ room. It had been instilled in her by Papa when she was little and, thank God because of it, she hasn’t seen anything that her fathers’ could be getting up to behind closed doors. Or else she has and has somehow blocked it out. With a heavy tray in her hands, knocking is difficult, but she manages. There’s muffled shuffling around inside the room, before her Dad’s groggy voice sounds. “Come in.” She manages with some difficulty to get the door open and step inside. The dogs stay dutifully outside.

She doesn’t come into her fathers’ room often. There’s never been any reason to. All three of them have their own space within their home, and she’s thankful for it. If they ever wanted to come into her own room, they would knock just like she does to get into theirs. Inside, both of her fathers are still in bed, sheets draped slung over their waists. Dad wears a loose, worn shirt that looks at least a size too big for him while Papa is bare-chested.

“Good morning, _dovana_ ,” Papa says, voice nothing more than a tired rumble. He sits up and rests his back against a small assortment of pillows. “Why are you up this early?”

Emilia is known to sleep in. It’s something Papa secretly hates: an ability within the girl to sleep through the entire day if given the opportunity. But before she has a chance to open her mouth and respond, Papa’s eyes drift down to the tray in her hands.

“Happy anniversary,” Emilia says, walking slowly to the bed. Papa stretches out his arms for the tray while Dad shuffles to the other side, freeing up some space between them.

“You know how I feel about food in bed, Emilia,” Papa admonishes, but there isn’t any heat behind the words or the look he gives her. Her Dad shakes the last of sleep from him as he mirrors Hannibal’s position. He eyes the spread being placed between them.

“This is nice,” Will says slowly, peering up at his daughter. “Almost too nice.”

Hannibal hushes him, handing over his mug of milky sweet coffee. For a moment, Emilia thinks of just leaving. She almost has to turn away when she sees their fingers brush when handing over the mug, or how they divide the toast and butter among themselves. _It looks normal_ , she thinks. _This must be how every other couple behaves_. Once they have that settled, Hannibal pats a small space on the bed between them. Will moves a leg out of the way to make more room. It interferes slightly with her plan: if she indulges this for too long, the timing of everything will be off. But then again, she loves her fathers, and all that they’ve done for her.

She kicks off her shoes and sits on the bed with them, watching raptly as they start to eat. She watches with the same intensity as she did when she first started cooking for them. It had always been small meals – breakfasts, lunches, snacks or bakes – and without her Papa either hovering over her shoulder or watching not-very-subtly from the pantry, sink, or dining table. Papa had taught her how to cook and would always offer some constructive criticism if something needed to be seasoned better or made a different way. Even now, with full meals under her belt, she waits patiently for Papa’s verdict.

“Perfect, _dovana_ ,” he smiles, cutting into a slice of bacon, “perfect.”

Will almost chokes on his coffee. Emilia sees him raise an eyebrow over the rim of the mug. A flush spreads over her cheekbones. One always does whenever she gets praised.

“So,” Dad says when he manages to control his spluttering, “ _why_ have we been served this ‘perfect’ breakfast in bed?”

Emilia shrugs a shoulder. “It’s your anniversary.”

“You’ve already gifted us a visit to the opera tonight,” Papa jumps in. He’s wearing a puzzled expression that mirrors Dad’s exactly. “Why the extra gift?”

She won’t be able to bullshit them. She learned that a long time ago. “You’ve both done a lot for me recently,” she says. It’s easy to get out because it’s the truth. “And I know that we celebrate your anniversary every year anyway, but, a lot has happened in the last few months, and I just wanted to make sure you both know how much I appreciate everything.”

Dad’s wearing a look that says he doesn’t quite believe her: that she’s not telling the whole truth. _It’s that damn gift_ , her mind supplies. _Always able to see right through you_. But he eventually nods. “We love you too, Emmy.”

Plucking a piece of toast from Dad’s plate, she pulls a face. “Well, I wouldn’t go _that_ far.”

 

* * *

 

 

After breakfast, she tells them to go into town for the rest of the day, until the opera at least. She knows that Papa has to have a few adjustments made to his coat for the night and that Dad needs a tie. She took the tray from their room and did the dishes – something Dad nearly had an aneurysm over. They would have to come back to the house eventually to get ready for the opera. _That’s fine_ , Emilia thinks while drying the last of the plates.

She hears the familiar footfalls of her Dad entering the kitchen. “Breakfast _and_ putting away the dishes,” he chuckles. He stands beside her at the sink, taking some of the cutlery from her and putting it away in the drawers. “You’re really milking it, Emmy.”

She knocks his shoulder with her own. “Keeping making fun of me Dad and you’ll never have breakfast made or dishes washed ever again.”

At that, her dad smiles. It’s one of the smiles that she didn’t used to see all that often – one that overtakes his entire face, crinkles his eyes and reaches his ears. He chuckles softly. “What a loss that would be.” When everything is eventually put away, and the kitchen looks just as clean as it did this morning, Emilia is suddenly enveloped in her Dad’s arms. “Thank you, Emmy. For everything you’ve given us.” Something heavy and tight constricts her heart.

 

* * *

 

 

When both of fathers leave the penthouse, she waits fifteen minutes before leaving too. Papa’s tailor is on one side of Florence while the path to the airport takes her the other way. Her heart still hammers against her ribcage as she hails a taxi and gives directions. The plan replays itself in her mind, over and over again. Flashes of memories blink between plays: memories of Baracoa and the FBI man. As the taxi takes her away from the main city and towards the airport, she shakes away vicious prodding images of the man’s blood splattered against the hotel room’s carpet, or how the shot snapped his head to the side, and his body tumbled with the force of it. Memories that have plagued nightmares ever since. The driver makes idle conversation. She’s been taught enough Italian by her Papa to hold the conversation for a while. She can’t get to the airport quick enough. As the main city’s facade of sepia buildings dissolves, she keeps glancing down at her watch, checking the time. The plane would be arriving soon. Papa and Dad have arrived at the tailor's.

At the airport drop-off, she waves the taxi away. If something was to go wrong about what she’s about to do, she doesn’t want someone being too familiarised with her face. They part ways with a wave and Emilia wanders into the airport. Florence airport isn’t the largest she’s ever been in, but as she glances to the arrivals board near the front door, she notes just how many flights enter and leave Florence. _Maybe that’s why Dad likes this place so much_ , she thinks idly. _A quick escape is just a hop-on flight away_.

Freddie’s flight is a connecting one from Berlin. Emilia’s swept with a small crowd of people all heading for the arrival gates. Stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets, she runs through her plan one last time in her head. Suddenly the gate’s doors are in front of her and, already, people from arrived plans are starting to flow through. She quickly scans the crowd: families reuniting, businessmen and women on another leg of a journey somewhere else on the continent. She waits by a wall, scanning the crowd. Suddenly, among them, is a head of bright red curls and a face hidden behind large-framed black sunglasses.

Emilia’s stomach drops.

Pushing away from the wall, she stalks over to Freddie; swallowing a thick lump beginning to form and lodge in her throat. Freddie is looking around too; probably for a chauffeur holding a sign, Emilia thinks idly. Weaving through the crowds is easy enough and it isn’t long until she sees Freddie Lounds clearly.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ms Lounds?”

Freddie pivots on a pointed high heel and comes face to face with Emilia. The first thing she notes is how Ms Lounds doesn’t look like the photos of herself on her website. Well, not anymore. Peering over the rim of her dark sunglasses are tired and haunted eyes, surrounded by darkened lines and circles. Emilia shrinks into herself slightly, wringing her hands together before she outstretches one. “I’m Emilia...the girl you’ve been speaking to.”

The sunglasses disappear with a flourish of a hand, and suddenly Emilia’s face is framed between two gloved hands. The tired haunted eyes now bear into hers; full of life and something else. “God, you’re different than I imagined,” she says, turning Emilia’s head slightly. Freddie’s eyes narrow as she examines what is in front of her. “But beautiful. And you look just like her.”

Emilia doesn’t linger on the question that almost comes tumbling out of her mouth. _Who is it do you think I look like?_ Aurora? She’s seen dozens and dozens of photos of the woman and, honestly, Emilia can’t see much resemblance. Giovanna? Sure. She inherited the same high cheekbones, but that’s it.

Or does she mean Abigail?

“Thank you for coming,” Emilia presses on. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to tell my story.”

Freddie beams. “Well, that’s my job, sweetie.”

She interlinks her arm with Emilia’s, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to snap the woman’s arm in half. Dad taught her how to defend herself years ago. It’s become second nature to her now. They grab Freddie’s bags and head back to the drop-off area. A small collection of taxis wait outside, and it isn’t long until Emilia has bundled both Freddie and her bags into one, and given directions to the driver.

Freddie watches her while she instructs the driver in Italian on where to go. Emilia catches her watching. “I’ve lived here for a while,” is her explanation.

If the drive to the airport seemed long, getting back to the city seems even longer. Emilia peers out the window as Freddie idly chats beside her. Every question the woman asks reminds her of their email correspondence. Questions like _how everything been_ , _have you lived here long_ , _how many languages do you know_. They’re all leading questions.

 _She’s trying to interview you right here_ , her mind supplies. Emilia smiles softly. “I’m sure none of your readers wants to know about any of that stuff, Ms Lounds.”

At that, the woman’s lips curl into a smile. It’s nothing like Emilia has seen before. “Sweetie, stuff like that is exactly what my readers want to know.”

Emilia doesn’t understand the fascination people have with her fathers. She understands why they might be interested in serial killers and crimes. She’s read bibliographies of killers behind bars – books gifted to her by both her Papa and Dad – and she sort of understands why her fathers’ story may be interesting, but the level of hysteria around knowing their whereabouts it what she doesn’t get.

She doesn’t understand Freddie Lounds. She remembers Dad mentioning her name in passing, but always in passing. Any mention of her name or any news she writes is always met with a disdainful glower from Papa. Sitting next to the woman, confined to the back seat of a car for a thirty-minute ride back to the city, she starts to understand why Papa hates her too.

Emilia had enough foresight to book Freddie into a hotel under the guise that it is where she lives too. The hotel doesn’t look like much from either the inside or outside, looking more like a block of renovated apartments. “They let you live here by yourself?” Freddie asks when Emilia plucks a set of keys from the receptionist's fingers.

Emilia has to bite the inside of her cheek. “I gained their trust after a couple of years. I guess they trust me enough not to run away,” she says slowly, nodding to a flight of stairs leading up to the apartments.

Once in the room, Emilia closes the door behind her with a click. She pockets the keys in her jacket, zipping up the pocket to make sure no wandering hands can get to them. Freddie and Emilia have their own plan: an interview in the city where the Murder Husbands and their stolen daughter live. Freddie could print as much information as she wanted. Truthfully, Emilia thinks as she turns to walk into a sparsely furnished living room, she won’t make it that far.


	24. Florence, Italy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emilia's Becoming, Part 2
> 
> A/N: This fic takes place in the future years, explaining why Emilia refers to her being abandoned by the Romanos in 2017. Hannibal (the series) finished in 2015, so I'm using that year to build on with this verse.

Emilia dumps her rucksack on the kitchen table. The small kitchen unit opens out on to a living area, with only a waist-high breakfast bar dividing the two. Freddie paces between the living room and a bedroom that is next door, gathering everything she needs. Reaching into her bag, she grabs a bottle of water and rests her lower back against the edge of the sink. Watching Freddie bustle around, she fiddles with the cap of the bottle. 

Something in her veins isn’t letting her settle.

Something inside her is starting to wake up.

She takes a swig of water and puts her bottle bag in her bag. Her fingers brush against the blade she’s managed to get here. The switchblade is nestled at the bottom of her bag. It’s survived multiple moves around the world, and it belongs to her dad. He once showed her how to gut a fish with it when she was seven and they lived in France. She turns the closed blade in her hand before putting it away again.

It takes almost an hour for Freddie to announce that she’s ready to start the interview. Both of them sit across from each other on armchairs. On Freddie’s lap are a notebook, splayed open, and a pen poised and ready to go once Emilia starts speaking. The notebook looks battered and used – while everything else about Freddie is pristine and put together. The notebook is mostly filled with scribbles and folded up pieces of paper that jut out of every page.

Emilia faintly wonders how many leads Freddie has followed to get to her fathers. She has to stop a wicked smile from spreading across her lip. Freddie’s so close to them now. Glancing down at her watch, Emilia knows that Papa and Dad will be finishing up at the tailors by now. They have other jobs to do around the city. They won’t be home for a while.

“This can be as informal as you want it, Emilia,” Freddie smiles – one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s a simple recorder resting on the mahogany coffee table between them. It blinks red.

Emilia makes sure to slouch against the back of the chair. _Be the girl she spoke to_. Reaching up to draw a stray strand of blond hair from her face, Emilia nods.

 

* * *

 

 

“My name is Emilia Romano. I was born to Francesco and Aurora Romano. In 2017, my family and I were sailing around the Amalfi Coast with a friend of my father’s – George. I was five at the time.”

Freddie nods along. Emilia makes sure to slow her words down, shuffle in her seat slightly every so often.

“One night, my parents and their friend were on deck, talking and drinking. I was in bed. I remember being awake because I didn’t like the sea – and that night it had been so quiet and calm that I thought something bad was going to happen.”

“And something bad _did_ happen, didn’t it?”

Emilia’s gaze falls down to the recorder, still idly blinking. Reliving the night is odd. She’s already visited the memories before, walked through the boat as her older self within her mind, and made her peace with it. What _is_ odd is revealing these details to a stranger. She doesn’t like that this stranger is Freddie Lounds – someone who has spent years hounding after her fathers.

But it’s part of her plan. She once heard her fathers talk idly in the living room of one of their homes. She was younger then, halfway between wakefulness and sleep, lounging against Papa’s side while he combed his fingers through her hair. In that limbo place, she heard them quietly discussing a becoming. Dad’s becoming. She remembers how fond their voices seemed to be. Dad would laugh every so often: like it was some kind of joke shared between the two of them. But they spoke of dragons and cliffs and she didn’t understand. She understands now though, after years being under their protection.

She wrings her fingers together. “Yes, something bad happened. By the end of the night, my parents and their friend were dead.”

Freddie hums. The only other sound in the room is the scratching of the tip of her pen against her notebook. “Is that when you met Will Graham?”

 _She must have some of the story written already from your emails_ , she thinks, _and is just waiting for you to fill in the gaps_.

Emilia manages a nod. “I don’t remember much of that night, but I remember being taken off of the boat and brought to their house.”

At that, Freddie’s pen stills. “Their house?”

Emilia nods again. “They lived in a small house, between the beach and the town. I was carried back.”

Freddie tilts her head slightly. “So they killed your parents, and then took you to their home?” Freddie looks down at her notebook and starts writing again. “It must have been difficult: living with your captors.”

Emilia catches the inside of her cheek with her teeth. “I suppose some people may see it like that.”

Freddie stops writing again. “You don’t?”

“I was five, Ms Lounds. I didn’t remember a lot of what happened that night. Not for a while anyway. I just know that I...” Emilia swallows, “I preferred living with the men who whisked me away.”

Emilia has to give it to Freddie for not reacting straight away. She watches the words resonate with the woman before a slight frown creases her brow. “You _preferred_ living with your captors?”

“I preferred it to living with my actual parents,” Emilia says slowly, gazing out one of the lancet windows that look out on to the Florence city facade, “they weren’t kind people, Ms Lounds.”

There’s quick scratching of a pen against paper.

Emilia presses on. “I spent years living alongside my _captors_ , as you call them. Never once did I want to know how I got there, or what had happened to put me there. I was content with not knowing.”

Freddie pauses. “What changed?”

“A mural in _Piazza della Signoria_ _,”_ Emilia sighs. It seems like so distant a memory now. If she reaches out with her fingers, it starts to wisp away with the wind. “I spent the day with a friend of mine. We stumbled across a mural painted in one of the alleyways. He told me that it was painted in remembrance of the Romano case. I hadn’t heard of it. I think it’s because, at that point, I had forgotten my old name. Emilia is mine. My name will always be Emilia. The men you chase so closely call me Emilia. But I had forgotten everything that made me a Romano.”

A hot tear runs down her cheek, falling on to her lap. She inhales suddenly. “Can we take a break please, Ms Lounds?”

It takes a moment for Freddie to register what she’s asked, but the woman leans forward and clicks the recorder off. “Of course,” she smiles that smile again before placing her notebook, snapped closed, on the table beside the recorder. “Take as long as you need. This interview is about you.”

Emilia smiles in return and stands. Freddie does the same a moment later. “When you’re ready to continue, just say so.”

She returns to the kitchen. It looks out on to the living area, divided by a small breakfast bar. Emilia ruffles through her rucksack, but lifts her eyes when she hears papers being shuffled. Freddie places her notebook on the coffee table before heading towards the bedroom. Just before she disappears through the doorway, Emilia sees the other man’s hand dip into her jeans pocket and pull out her phone. 

A frown creases along Emilia’s brow. Her fingers graze the closed switchblade in her bag. She snatches it into her palm and stuffs it into her back pocket.

Outside, Florence has seemed to melt away. The sound of traffic and people chattering outside on the streets don’t reach the room. Glancing at the windows, she notes how long thick drapes fall down, framing the lancet windows. She thinks momentarily about pulling them closed, but thinks against it. She needs Freddie unawares.

From the corner of her eye, Emilia sees the door to the bedroom slowly inch closed. She moves her bag from the table to the floor, and walks back out on to the living room. Just inside the bedroom, she can hear the faint mumbling of Freddie speaking. Emilia tilts her head. If she strains her ears, she can faintly make out what Freddie’s saying.

“This is Freddie Lounds. I may have a lead on the Graham-Lecter case.”

Emilia rests her hand on the door, gently pushing it open. Inside, Freddie stands at the bottom of the bed, facing the wall. One of her hands holds her phone to her ear, while the other skims along the top of one of her leather, printed bags. Emilia tilts her head. Inside, poking out slightly, she sees worn, cardboard files. Must be theirs, Emilia thinks. She runs her gaze over Freddie. The woman standing in the bedroom isn’t the same woman who’s interviewing Emilia. The woman’s shoulders are hunched slightly, she’s curling into herself. The fingers on the bag drum against the leather of the bag.

“I’d like to speak to Agent Starling, please.”

Emilia’s hand drifts to her jean pocket: fingers curling along the switchblade.

“Agent Starling! I’m sorry for calling so late, but my name is Freddie Lounds. I’m a journalist for TattleCrime....oh, you’ve heard of me? Excellent.”

As Emilia steps into the room, she tries to scan her memories for any mention of an Agent Starling. Her fathers’ never mentioned anything like that. Dad doesn’t often speak of the FBI. The only run-in they’ve ever had with the FBI was with Crawford, and even with that, Emilia can’t truly remember the night. She remembers shooting him, and then waking up the next day, but everything in between is lost.

Her grip tightens on her blade. She uses the side of her thumb to flip up the blade. Her heart hammers against her ribcage, and for a fleeting moment, she thinks that it’s possible to hear it within the room. Her footsteps are silent against the plush carpet, and as Emilia inches closer towards Freddie Lounds, her grip on her blade tightens to the point of pain.

“I’m sure you’ve been sent hundreds of leads over the past couple of years: God knows that I have,” Freddie laughs breathlessly before pressing on, “but I’ve been on the trail of one for the last few years and I think I’ve finally cracked it: I know where Lecter and Graham are-”

Emilia’s hand clamps over Freddie’s mouth and she tugs the woman back towards her front. With her other hand, she slashes one deep cut along the woman’s throat. A smattering of blood flies from Freddie’s throat to the white sheets of the bed next to them. The splatter hits against the carpet and walls in little flecks as Freddie’s body slumps heavily against Emilia’s front. Emilia takes her hand from Freddie’s gaping mouth and plucks her phone from her hand. Taking note of the caller ID, Emilia presses END CALL and pockets the phone in her jacket.

She hooks her chin over Freddie’s shoulder, keeping her mouth close to the woman’s ear. “You’ve followed my family for too long, Ms Lounds. I couldn’t give a shit whether or not you found my Romano relatives or not. I’m starting to make peace with that fact myself. I’m the daughter of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, and you were a fool to come here to meet me.”

Freddie’s body falls to the ground with a thud as Emilia steps away. On the bed in front of her, beside Freddie’s bag, is the woman’s recorder: blinking red. She glances at it. Picking it up, she stares at how bright blood looks against the chrome-silver case; how it blotches and congeals around it, smearing all over the microphone and display. The red light still blinks at her. She presses her thumb to the power button and it flickers off. Stuffing it into her pocket, she flips the switchblade around in her other hand.

Dark red blood starts to creep along the carpeted floor of the room. Memories of Crawford’s body flashes in front of her eyes, chased away with a firm shake of her head. Some part of her waits for the panic to set it like it did with Crawford: that blood-chilling fear that wracked through her body with the idea that she caused harm to someone else. But she frowns. The panic doesn’t come. Instead, her hands tremble with adrenaline, not fear. A smile slowly unfurls along her lip. She’s never felt this awake in all of her life.

The last piece of her plan is beginning to unfold. Glancing outside, she sees the sun starting to descend over the uneven horizon of Florence city. The opera will have started by now. In some distant corner of her mind, she hopes that her fathers are enjoying themselves.

She twirls the switchblade in her hand as she glances back down to Freddie. “Well, Ms Lounds,” she says, tilting her head, “what are we to do with you?”

 

* * *

 

 

A sleek black car is waiting for them outside the vaulted entrance of the opera house. Well-dressed and jewellery-clad men and women are still either mingled together in the foyer of the opera house, flutes of champagne in hand chatting idly with each other, or starting to flow out on to the main street to awaiting cars.

Will had managed to pull Hannibal away from a pretty animated conversation with a Greek classic academic long enough for the car’s driver to round the vehicle and open the backseat door for them. Will thanks the man with a smile and a nod and practically shoves his husband inside. Operas were never his thing: he couldn’t imagine a lifetime where they were. But living with Hannibal, intertwined so tightly together that neither could survive separation, has cemented the idea that both men have their own interests; and the other would simply have to live with it. Hannibal accompanied Will on fishing trips when it had been just the two of them. Emilia has taken Hannibal’s place: preferring to be out on boats with her Dad, casting lines and talking with him about anything and everything.

Seeing Hannibal at ease within the social elite of Florence, seeing him navigate conversations and genuinely enjoy himself, it makes sitting through an hours-long opera performance he doesn’t understand worth it.

Hannibal has his arm hooked around Will’s during the entire night. When they were own to their seats by an usher, Hannibal instead took Will’s hand within his own and kept it there during the entire performance: only moving it to applaud with the audience at the end of every piece.

Even now, sliding into their car home, he keeps Will close to his side. It’s a force of habit. He used to do it not only to keep an eye on Will in public, but he knows how the man distates being around large masses of people at any given time. He’s improved over the years with how many people he can keep company with and for how long, but certain looks sent Hannibal’s way informs the man that he needs to be brought away for a moment. The partition between the front and back of the car is a frosted-glass sliding window, now closed.

Once the car pulls out on to the main road and starts their journey home, Hannibal leans to Will’s side and presses his lips against the man’s temple.

“Did you enjoy tonight?” The words are mumbled against Will’s skin as Hannibal moves his lips down along the curve of the other man’s cheekbone and jaw.

Will casts a quick glance towards the partition. Satisfied that there’s no way that the driver can see them, even with a quick glance to the rear view mirror, he nods. “I did,” he tilts his head to the side, letting Hannibal access his neck. “You?”

The other man hums: the vibrations ricochet through Will’s skin.

“You and Maestra Bianchi seemed to have a pretty intense argument,” Will sighs at the gentle scrape of teeth against his neck, “were you disagreeing over compositions again?”

One of Hannibal’s hands slides beneath the lapel of Will’s jacket. His palm runs over the other man’s stomach, sliding until it reaches his side. “No. The piece’s composition we agreed was wonderful. She was actually quite taken with you.” Hannibal wraps an arm around Will’s shoulders, tugging him closer. “She wondered where I found such a fascinating and enchanting young man.”

Will can’t help but snort. “Not young anymore.”

There’s a slight muffled chuckle against the skin of Will’s neck. “Oh, but to ancient creatures like the Maestra and myself, you’re a young nymph.”

A blush burns across Will’s cheeks. Outside he can see the familiar facade of old-style apartment blocks that are near their own home. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” Will sighs, turning his head to rest his forehead against Hannibal’s, “but we’re nearly home, and I don’t think Emilia would appreciate us being all over each other in the hallway.”

Hannibal presses a kiss to Will’s cheek. “Emilia will be asleep by now, if not holed up in that rat’s nest she calls a bedroom.”

Will manages to untangle his fingers from Hannibal’s hand and cups the man’s cheek with his palm. “You can have your way with me once we’re home and inside our room,” will runs his thumb over the raised, faded scar along Hannibal’s cheekbone. “But I’m not traumatising our daughter.”

The car slowly rolls to a stop and Will hears the driver get out and start to walk around to their side. Will steals a chaste kiss from Hannibal’s lips just as the door opens behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

Hannibal manages to keep his hands to himself, more or less, as they walk through the reception of their building. The elevator up is quiet as the door slides open to reveal their dimly lit hallway. The lights perched along the walls glow softly. At the bottom of the hallway, Will notes that both the lights in the dining room and kitchen are on. He glances down at his watch. 10 pm. He knows Emilia can stay away during the night, but after a day out with Marco, she’s usually exhausted and asleep by now. Hannibal’s hand links with his own and the other man leads him down the hallway towards the kitchen.

With every step, aromas suddenly float through the air, wrapping around them – garlic, oregano, cumin, coriander, the unmistakable smell of meat being seared on a grill.

Hannibal drops Will’s hand and heads into the kitchen with Will trailing behind. His stomach grumbles softly. They had managed a lunch before heading to the opera house in a small cafe on the other side of the street. Even with the late hour, he thinks that a meal would go down well.

When they enter the kitchen, Will almost runs into Hannibal’s back: the man seemingly frozen at the doorway.

The scent changes – his nose registers something. The herbs and spices are familiar: rubbed into meats that Hannibal has cooked in previous years. The meat smells like pork – it has that roundness. But something’s off, an undertone that he isn’t quite sure of.

“It’s a bit late for dinner, don’t you think dovana?”

Will moves slightly into the doorway. Emilia stands at two lit gas cookers, managing a grill that stretches between them. Two long, slender loins of meat sizzle on the grill, blackened with seared seasonings clinging on like a new skin.

Emilia glances up from the grill. “Oh, I was wondering when you’d be back,” she smiles suddenly, taking a pair of metal tongs to turn the meat. “I was thinking that we could have dinner now, seeing as you didn’t get anything today?”

Will can’t see Hannibal’s face, but the other man does tilt his head slightly.

“I don’t remember ever getting loin cuts,” he said, nodding to the grill. Emilia tends to them, eventually removing from the grill and on to a foil-lined tray. The way she moves around the kitchen reminds Will of Hannibal. There’s a certain sureness she has in her movements as she wraps both loins in foil, adds a dribble of water to the tray and slides it into the oven.

“I got them while you were out,” Emilia says simply, turning back to the kitchen island. Will sniffs at the at. Hannibal moves into the kitchen, quietly regarding the worktop, covered with labelled bottles of dried herbs, knives and cutting boards, and a pan. He raises his gaze to Emilia. “ _Be truthful with me, daughter_ ,” he says lowly, face unreadable, “ _who was the butcher to give you those cuts?_ ”

Emilia puts her hands on the worktop. Will tilts his head, scanning her frame. She looks just as normal as she had done when they left this morning. As he runs his gaze down, he notes a faint line of red underneath her fingernails. Will looks back up at her: a soft smile resting on her lips, warm brown eyes and raised eyebrows. She looks like she always has.

“ _I got them myself, father_ ,” she answers simply.

At that, Hannibal glances over to Will. Before he can say anything, the oven’s timer beeps. Emilia grabs the oven-mitt and shoots them a bright smile. “If you want to wait out in the dining room, I can finish up with dinner?”

“ _Dovana-_ ”

“- _Please father_ ,” Emilia says, “ _let me thank you both_.”

Hannibal’s hand clasps Will’s. Their fingers interlink.

“Can I ask what the meat is?” Will says before he’s whisked away next door. Emilia takes the roasting tray from the oven and places it on to a wire cooling rack. The seasonings on the outside of the loins have crusted into a coal-black skin, cracked along the sides to reveal juicy, blushing-red meat that oozes juice.

Emilia grabs a two-pronged fork and a carving knife. When she looks over to Will again, her smile remains just as soft as it always has. “A simple cut of meat, though it took a while to source. I got it from, what did you use to call it Dad, ‘a slim and delicate pig’?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, this one was long (and a pain to write). 
> 
> So I work at a popular tourist destination, and work is really starting to get busy now with everyone deciding to come in August apparently...? It's why this chapter took long to write than the others: that, and from an emotional and plot standpoint, I couldn't get this out for ages lol
> 
> Also, if anyone spots any grammar/spelling mistakes, I'd ask you not to inform me and pretend that they aren't there. This chapter took WAY TOO LONG to write, and I wasn't going to go back and read the absolute vomit I churned out in the last few days...


	25. Florence, Italy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout from Emilia's Becoming.

“How are you okay with this, Hannibal?”

Will is led into their dining room, places already set with simple white porcelain plates, cutlery, and a collection of lit candles wrapped among roses and thorns. The other man wears a faint smile on his lips – one that people would miss if they didn’t look for it.

Hannibal pulls Will’s chair out for him. His usual place: Hannibal at the head of the table with Will on his right.

“I’m sure she had her own reasoning for hunting-”

“-Please don’t say that,” Will winces. He’s an urge to slap the growing smile off of Hannibal’s face. The other man slides into his own chair at the head of the table, unfurling a napkin for his lap.

“She’s hunted, Will,” he says simply, his tone of voice suggesting he’s talking of something as mundane as the weather, “she selected a prey, sought it out, stalked, and slaughtered it. We did it constantly. I don’t see the problem.”

A long sigh leaves Will’s nose. “The problem is that we’re adults. She’s sixteen.”

The door between the kitchen and dining room swings open and Emilia steps inside, holding a tray of craved loin meat spread out among basil leaves. The spread is placed in the middle of the table, among the three of them; and Will has never been so hesitant to pluck a portion. Emilia takes her seat opposite him, still smiling. It’s the smile she’s kept from childhood: when Will would secretly bring her for ice-cream or crepes, or when Hannibal would shower her with praise at being able to recite a piano piece from memory, and play it without a faulted note.

Will can’t help but think that the smile is tarnished now.

As Emilia sits down at the table, Hannibal places his hand over hers and squeezes gently. “ _This is beautiful,_ ” he smiles.

Hannibal is the one to serve portions, and Will doesn’t miss how the other man slightly hesitates when putting cuts of meat on his plate. When Will meets Hannibal’s gaze, it’s unsurprising that the man has settled him with a slightly arched eyebrow. He’ll eat what’s in front of him. He’s fine with it. It would be hypocritical to refuse, seeing as though he’s shared too many meals with Hannibal over the years of their relationship: even before that. But the idea that his daughter provided this meal, though, _that_ bothers him.

 He tentatively picks up his cutlery. Emilia preens under Hannibal’s praise: they speak to each other in Lithuanian, but Will can guess from Hannibal’s gesturing to the spread of meat that he’s instructing her on how to improve cooking.

His heart constricts. Improvement. She might do all of this again. Will frowns slightly. If Hannibal starts mentoring her on cooking human flesh, she _will_ be doing all of this again. Will won’t sit there and say that he hasn’t thought of this day happening. He just assumed it would be later in her life.

“Is everything okay, Dad?”

Emilia’s looking straight at him, head slightly cocked.

He forces a smile. “Everything’s fine, Emmy.” He cuts into a portion of loin. “It looks good.”

Although Emilia turns back to cutting at her own dinner, Hannibal’s gaze still remains on Will. He can feel it: a look that’s burning into the side of his face. To get him off his back, Will shoots him a small smile.

“Thank you for tonight, _dovana_ ,” Hannibal says, lifting a piece of meat to his lips. He pauses for a second, savouring the scent, and eats it. He hums. Emilia mirrors the movements. When she scents the meat, Hannibal leans over slightly. “ _Can you smell how the spices compliment the meat? The fat marbling along the cut helps accentuate it_.”

Emilia eats the small piece on her fork. For a momentary second, Will’s world comes to an abrupt halt. Emilia eating human flesh wasn’t something he tended to think a lot about. He used to. _God_ , he used to. He worried over it and then entertained the idea that maybe she wouldn’t. Her attitude to her fathers' hunting would remain positive – she always understood the necessity of eating the rude – but she would have to have separate meals during lunch and dinner times. But the girl sitting opposite him is eating what’s in front of her as if it were normal pork. For a moment, Will hopes distantly that Hannibal didn’t scent the meat correctly, and that it _is_ really just pork. But Emilia has admitted it.

She’s killed someone.

She’s killed _Freddie Lounds_.

The idea should repulse him. But it doesn’t stop him cutting into the loin, bringing a piece of his mouth, and savouring the way it melts in his mouth. They never had an opportunity to eat Freddie back in the US. Will doesn’t know how to feel about it now.

Hannibal sits at the head of the table with an almost triumphant smile on his face. “How was your hunt?”

Will has the sudden urge to slap the man again.

Emilia seems to think for a moment. “Not what I expected,” she answers simply.

Hannibal’s eyebrow raise. “Oh? What did you expect?”

Emilia puts her cutlery down. “I don’t know,” she shrugs a shoulder, “I expected to be afraid. I thought that I would freak out like I did with Crawford back in Baracoa.”

Will frowns. Even with only his name mentioned, a sour taste enters Will’s mouth at the thought of the memory still haunting his daughter.

“But I felt fine: like I’d done it a hundred times.”

Hannibal nods, eating more of the meat. “It must have been quick: there’s no tension in the meat at all.”

Will _really_ wants to slap Hannibal.

Emilia tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

Hannibal pierces a small piece in his fork and holds it up for Emilia to see. “When an animal is tense or stressed before slaughtering, the anxiety felt effects the meat,” he gestures to the piece with his finger, “lactic acid is excreted, helping the meat spoil more. But this cut is free of any of that. The kill itself must have been quick.”

Hannibal settles a knowing look to her. “How did you do it?”

“Cut to the throat,” she answers simply. The statement doesn’t seem to shock her. “Severed carotid artery and vein.”

Will winces. “Didn’t you once say that we shouldn’t speak of these things at the table, Hannibal?” The question is lost on the other man. He’s practically preening.

Emilia does swallow though; a meekly look shadowing along her features. “I couldn’t dispose of the body though, Papa.”

Hannibal waves his hand. “I’ll assist you with all of that, _dovana_. We’ll go back in the morning.”

He hates to think of it, but the dinner goes just as well as all of their dinners go. Emilia continues to blush under Hannibal’s praise – taking on some instructions for the future with sharps nods of the head. When everything’s finished, she even plucks up the plates and cutlery and disappears into the kitchen to do the dishes. Will sits back against his chair as Hannibal swirls the last of his wine around his glass.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, Will hides himself away in Hannibal’s office. He tried not to wince when he woke up alone in bed. As he ran his hand along the cooling, made-up side of their bed, Will tried to shake off the thought that he knew where Hannibal had taken their daughter: and what they were doing. He spent his morning wandering around the penthouse: fixing himself a simple breakfast of eggs and toast, eating it slowly, before retreating to Hannibal’s office. He had closed the door behind him, taking a seat at Hannibal’s desk before fishing Freddie’s recorder and earphones out of his pocket.

Will puts the recorder and earphones back on the desk. Listening to Freddie’s voice, it sounds just as grating as it did back in the day. He couldn’t help but frown at the questions she posed to Emilia – leading questions that she obviously had concocted on the flight over. Knowing that she was so close to him and Hannibal, knowing that she sat in front of and spoke to _their daughter_ , it churns Will’s stomach.

Caught up in his thoughts, he misses the knock on the door. He almost jerks off of the chair when the recognisable touch of Hannibal’s hands press on his shoulders. He takes a quick glance at the grandfather clock that sits against one wall of the office: midday. They’re home early.

“It’s sorted out, then?” Will asks, turning back to glare at the recorder as if his gaze alone could make it burst into flames.

Hannibal hums, kneading the muscles of the other man’s shoulders. He can feel tension slowly ebb away.

Will breathes a long sigh out through his nose. The back of his head rests against the back of the chair. Blinking up at Hannibal, Will reaches up and puts his hand on one of Hannibal’s. “How is she?”

Hannibal runs his thumb over Will’s knuckles. “She didn’t freeze at the apartment if that’s what you’re asking.” He shouldn’t be thankful for that, but he is. Will thinks of how Emilia may have been either during the kill itself or when she and Hannibal both snuck back into the apartment. When Hannibal’s hands leave his shoulders, coldness creeps into his bones. Autumn is arriving to Florence, with the days steadily getting colder. The other man crosses the room to put a couple of cut logs into the fireplace.

Will watches him strike up a small fire. “You know, when she was small, I never considered her following this path,” he says, staring off into a corner in the room, not looking at anything in particular. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hannibal pause for a second. “She was so little and fragile...so pure. I couldn’t imagine her adopting any darkness from us. I thought that, I don’t know, it might just ricochet off of her.”

He hears a match strike. “You must have seen it though, Will. Over the last number of years, she’s changed her behaviour.”

“Please don’t psychoanalyse her to me,” Will suddenly glares at Hannibal. A small sparking fire has started to take shape, flames eventually licking around the logs. Hannibal stokes the fire for a moment before striding back into the centre of the office.

Will runs his thumb along the leather arm of the chair. “Can I ask you a question?”

Hannibal arches an eyebrow. “Of course you can; you never need my permission for that.”

“Will we have to leave Florence?”

Hannibal seems to mull it over for a moment. “I lived as _Il Mostro_ within Florence for a number of years.”

“You eventually left, though.”

“I would say _evicted_ , and only when an enigmatic policeman finally found his proof to convict me.”

Hannibal reaches his desk, sitting back against it to Will’s side. He folds his arms over his chest. “Are you remorseful about leaving?”

“Not for myself, no.” Silence settles between them for a moment. “Did she even think about what would happen after she killed Freddie? What the consequences would be afterwards?”

Hannibal, annoyingly, doesn’t answer. The questions hang in the silence that falls between them. Hannibal does, however, step away from the desk to place a hand on Will’s shoulder again. He secretly hates how Hannibal can undo him with strategically placed touches. Hannibal returns to kneading at Will’s shoulder with sure fingers. As every trace of tension leaves his body – tension that settled into his very bones since last night – Will finds his gaze drawn back to the recorder on the desk.

“The FBI is still looking for us,” Will mumbles. “A detective called Clarice Starling is apparently heading it.”

The recorder sits on the desk, unmoving, but to Will, it seems so evil. He wants it out of his house. Hannibal seems to regard it for a moment before picking it up and turning it in his hands. Will turns his head so he can press his lips against the hand on his shoulder. “Get rid of it for me?” he mumbles against the top of Hannibal’s fingers.

Something flashes in Hannibal’s eyes. “Of course, darling boy.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Meet me at the usual spot. Urgent._

Emilia unlocks and locks her phone every couple of seconds. From her perch on the fountain’s edge, facing the main plaza, she glances around the plaza watching swells of people moving around her. The plaza is just as busy as it always is. Musicians keep to the outside, near the facade of buildings, playing on pianos and guitars and violins. The music is almost lost in the hum of conversation of the crowd.

She doesn’t even hear Marco come up behind her.

When she looks over her shoulder to him, she frowns. He’s out of breath: chest heaving and curls stuck to his forehead with a light sheen of sweat. He folds in the middle and places his hands on his knees, taking in measured gulps of air. Before she can open her mouth, he breathes: “You said ‘urgent’. Is something wrong?”

Emilia stands up from the fountain’s edge, reaching out to frame his face with her hands. “I don’t know,” she mumbles before pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. She takes his arm and brings him down to sit with her.

“You seem sad,” he says, brushing her shoulder with his. Emilia almost winces when he interlocks their fingers together, and his other hand is placed on top of hers. _Maybe we should just leave_ , she thinks. _Just pack up everything and go. Leave Marco in the dark about what happened...about who I am._

“Sofia,” Marco says softly, squeezing her hands. “What’s wrong?”

_How do you even admit something like this?_

Now that she looks around at the plaza around them, avoiding Marco’s eyes, she thinks that the plaza isn’t the best place to be doing this. Then again, maybe the sound surround them will wash away whatever it is she has to say.

“I did something last night,” she starts, piecing the words together bit by bit. She has to be careful with them: searching for the right words to say. “I did something awful, but it’s not to me.”

She can feel Marco tilt his head. He does move closer though: pulling away one arm to hug her shoulders with it. “I’m sure whatever it is, it’s nothing.”

Emilia can’t stop the tears prickling her eyes. One tear spills over, trailing down her cheek and falling on to her lap. “I did something awful,” she repeats slowly, “and I don’t feel the slightest bit disturbed by it.”

She can feel Marco tense slightly to her side. “Soph, _caro_ , whatever it is, I’m sure-”

“Emilia.” She turns to face him, eyes hardening slightly. “My name’s Emilia. Emilia Graham-Lecter. I’m not at all who you think I am. You’ve fallen in love with someone completely fictional-”

“-That’s not true,” Marco interjects. When Emilia turns away, his grip on her hands tightens slightly. His eyes have changed, she notes. Something is behind them. They’re tinged with questioning and fear. _Why wouldn’t he be afraid_? _Everything he knows is being ripped away from him._

“You have no idea who I am.”

She thinks about moving this conversation somewhere else. Other couples and friends have started to sit down on the edge of the fountain: some tourists turning to the fountain itself to throw in a couple of coins. She just wants to look anywhere else but Marco’s face.

“Everything you know about me is a lie,” she mumbles, “everything you know about my family is a lie.”

Marco’s fingers slowly untangle from hers, and for a brief panicking moment, she thinks he’s going to make a run for it. _Just get it out_ , a voice in her head hisses, _get it out and let him go._

“I killed someone Marco,” the words fall out almost numb lips, “and I didn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt about it. I felt _good_ about it.”

Marco’s just staring at her, unblinking, face completely unreadable. She turns away and fishes an envelope out of her jacket pocket. It’s folded on itself, but sealed. She knew this would happen. On her walk over to the plaza, she tried piecing together something to say to him. But it wouldn’t happen. Emilia hands it to Marco. “If you want to know everything, read this. But only when I’m gone. Okay?”

He’s stock still: mouth opening and closing, but no words come out. “Y-You....what?”

Emilia takes his hand and stuffs the letter into it. “Read it. If you want to know, read it. I-I can’t...”

She stands up so quickly from the fountain, her knee joints crack and she gets slightly dizzy, but she starts to walk away regardless. Marco’s still on the edge of the fountain when she peers over her shoulder. Stuffing her hands into her pockets, she heads straight back home: eyes stinging with unshed tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this looks bad for the Emilia-Marco shippers among you, but never fear: I may be a bitch, but I'm not heartless. 
> 
> The two links below are the Author-Approved faceclaims of these two characters:  
> [Emilia Graham-Lecter](https://files.elle.se/uploads/fly-images/265054/Alba-August-980x515-c.jpg)  
> [Marco Alfonsi](http://lwlcdn.lwlies.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/lady-bird-timothee-chalamet-1108x0-c-default.jpg)


	26. Florence, Italy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will have a Concerned Fathers chat. Hannibal and Emilia have a Father-Daughter chat. 
> 
> And then there's a Visitor for one Ms Emilia.

The question of whether or not they would have to leave hangs over them for a number of days. Hannibal frequently checks in on regional and national news outlets, looking for any stories relating to a vanished American report. He never finds any.

Will prowls through TattleCrime: specifically the comment section of Freddie’s last story and a forum on the website. People had noted how it had been a while since anything had been posted on the website, but Freddie said towards the end of her last segment that she was working on something that would take time – so her absence wasn’t to be strange.

But it does remain unspoken between them: _should we just pack up and leave?_ Hannibal has more properties dotted around the rest of Europe, and Will knows of one house in rural Hokkaido and a collection of villas within Southern America. They could leave. They’ve left over less.

The question is finally addressed at midnight one night, in their room, as they lay together still awake as Florence slept.

“Emilia seems distant,” Hannibal says out into the otherwise quiet room. With Florence asleep, no sounds drift up to their apartment, and the city is eerily quiet. His runs his knuckles up and down Will’s exposed spine as he has the other man pulled close against his side.

Will trails his own fingers along Hannibal’s chest: mindful of the sensitive scar on the man’s abdomen. Hannibal’s heart beats steadily underneath Will’s cheek as he rests against the other man’s chest. Will hums. “She practically broke up with her first boyfriend, Hannibal. She’s allowed to be distant.”

He can feel Hannibal shift slightly underneath him.

“You’re not allowed to hurt him,” Will presses, turning his head to glower up at the other man.

Hannibal practically scoffs. “I don’t know why you keep presuming that I would inflict harm upon the boy. You’re feeding into an outdated stereotype of the overbearing and violent father, protective of his daughter from male advances.”

At that Will raises his head from Hannibal’s eyes, gaping at the man. “Are you being serious? You threatened to take off a man’s _entire arm_ because he brushed shoulders with me at a market in Strasburg. If you were that protective over me, you’re so much worse when it comes to our daughter.”

They exchange looks for a second before the space of flesh previously warmed by Will’s head grows cold, and Hannibal tugs Will back to lie down against him. Will goes easily, slinging his arm over Hannibal’s chest and pillowing his head against the curve of Hannibal’s shoulder. The apartment has fallen quiet with Emilia having excused herself to bed almost two hours ago. For the past couple of days, Will has watched the girl live a large portion of the day in bed, or in her room, only leaving it to have meals with both Will and Hannibal. Even then, it’s become normal now that she won’t speak. Will can coax a couple of words out – asking if she wants to go somewhere with him (and she always refuses) – but as soon as meals are done, she retreats back to her room again. He hates seeing her like this.

He feels Hannibal’s lips press against his forehead. “Where did you go just now, my love?”

“Nowhere.”

Hannibal lets the lie slide.

“Could you bring Emilia to the markets with you tomorrow?” Will looks back up at Hannibal. “She needs to get out of the apartment, and she likes going there with you.”

Hannibal nods. “She won’t be awake at the time we usually would go at, but I’ll wait for her.”

Will smiles softly, capturing Hannibal’s lips.

 

* * *

 

 

To both of their surprise, Emilia is actually awake at their usual departing time. And she’s dressed in clothes that aren’t sweatpants, a loose shirt, and her hair isn’t something resembling a rat’s nest. Will bites back the gentle jabs that have bubbled up through his throat.

Hannibal stands in the hallway of their apartment, just before the doorway of the elevator. He adjusts the lapels of his jacket in a large, ornate mirror in the hallway, turning his head when he hears Emilia’s boots clicking against the hardwood floor.

She’s wrapped up in a dark grey peacoat, a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck and mouth – with enough space left to bury her reddened nose in. Hannibal takes in her blotched face, rubbed dry from days of spilt tears.

“ _Oh my sweet girl_ ,” he sighs, coaxing her into a firm hug. Her arms come up to wrap tightly around him. She sniffles into his shoulder. “ _All will be well soon, my darling. The world will right itself_.”

Florence has a collection of markets. Every single one of them is different. Most are along paths walked by tourists, but one (the Sant’Ambrosio Market) is just hidden enough to allow locals into it. It’s the one Hannibal and Emilia go to the most. Many of the vendors know them. It’s just as busy as it always it with a cacophonous mess of vendors and buyers bartering among themselves.

At the entrance of the maze of stalls, Hannibal turns to the girl at his side and hands her a fabric bag and some euro notes. “Could you get me some vegetables for tonight’s dinner, _dovana_?”

Emilia nods. “What are you making?”

“Bolognaise. Get whatever you see fit.”

Hannibal’s heart swells when a small, barely-there smile curls along the corner of Emilia’s mouth. She ducks her head and turns on her heel, disappearing into the market. Giving her the job of sourcing ingredients might take her mind off of things. Hannibal keeps an eye on her though, watching her weave through stalls, pause to greet vendors and politely decline today’s special offers. He trails behind; mindful that abandoning her to the market might be dangerous.

She stops in front of a vegetable vendor: stall lined at the front with fresh coloured produce like eggplants, onions, carrots, turnips, and tomatoes. Hanging from the beam above the old vendor are herbs that dangle like chandeliers. Hannibal watches her fondly. She barters with the vendor for a moment before the old man throws up his hands with a smile, shakes Emilia’s hand, and takes a note from her. As she leaves, he animatedly blows her a kiss goodbye.

When she’s close enough to Hannibal again, she catches him looking at her. She ducks her head, burying her nose into her scarf, until she’s stood in front of him. She holds out the bag.

“Will these work for tonight?”

He inspects what she’s picked, mulling over it for a moment. He doesn’t need to. She’s learned off his recipe for bolognaise – and the slight variants of it. Over the past couple of years, she’s put in her own spin on many of his recipes: whether it had been substituting one thing for something else, or adding something extra. Everything she’s picked is perfect. “I suppose we’ll make do with these.”

She shakes her head, laughing softly, before shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. Even with autumn upon the city, the days have gotten bitterly cold with winds sweeping through the city. Hannibal has to stop his hands from reaching out to fix the lapels of Emilia’s jacket just so that they cover more of her.

They walk through the rest of the market, idly perusing the vendors and their stalls. The smell of baked bread and proving dough wrap around them as they walk. They don’t speak. Hannibal has often found that he doesn’t need to fill the silence that may fall between them. He does watch her though: not like how he did when he let her go off on her own. Instead, he watches how she looks around at every stall, taking in what’s being sold, for how much, and musing over how she could get more of it for cheaper. He watches how her nose wrinkles when they pass a stall laden with particularly strong smelling cheeses: the sour odour of a blue cheese catching her attention.

It reminds him of fading memories of wandering around Atrani or Munich markets with a little girl that barely came up to his hip, clutching his hand so she wouldn’t get lost, and eyes full of curiosity. She still has it, even now.

The market trip takes almost an hour. Satisfied that he has everything for the next few days, Hannibal turns to Emilia. “Would you like to get anything else?”

She shakes her head. Even bundled up in a jacket and scarf that hides most of her face, he sees it: She looks exhausted.

Hannibal nods. “Well then, let’s head home.”

The market is a fifteen-minute walk from their apartment. The walk itself always takes that bit longer because they like to stroll along, talking idly among themselves over whatever it is that came to mind.

Now, silence has settled between them. And although there’s never been a need to fill it in, Hannibal knows that this silence isn’t like their normal one.

“If you would like to talk to me about it,” he begins, words measured, “know that I’m always there to listen. So is your dad. “

Emilia’s looking down at her boots as she walks. “I know.” The words are muffled against her scarf. From how she keeps her eyes focused on the ground in front of her, he knows that she wants _that_ particular conversation to end there.

But Hannibal presses on. “ _Darling, I’m sorry that you’re feeling this way. But the lives we live – the one that you’ve now thrown yourself into – means that sometimes decisions have to be made regarding certain things._ ” Hannibal keeps their conversation between them. In Lithuanian and in a quiet tone: even with the swells of people moving past them as they walk into the courtyard in front of their apartment building. “ _You understood that you had to let that boy go. And it will hurt for a while, but the best you can do is look forward._ ”

Emilia reaches up and pulls her scarf down from her face. Hannibal raises an eyebrow slowly to see her mouth pulled into a deep frown. “ _You and Dad have each other_ ,” she says without any tone lighting her voice.

“ _Your father and I have things in common that we don’t share with most_ ,” he reasons, “ _and even then, it took me far too long to find him, darling_.”

Emilia’s frown only deepens. “ _If I want to be happy, I have to find someone who understands me?_ _For what it is that I do_?”

“ _Just like anyone else who tries to find love._ ”

The frown lessens slightly.

“You know,” she says, breaking into English again, “this is probably the most fucked up father-daughter conversation you and I have ever had.”

“Emilia, **language**.”

“It is!” She can’t help the way her frown disappears. Her features lighten up slightly. “This could be a completely normal conversation to anyone else, but the person who has to compliment me has to be okay with the fact that I’ve killed two people, eaten on, and I’m the adopted daughter of two cannibals.”

And, admittedly, Hannibal can see the funny side of that.

 

* * *

 

 

When they reach home, they unbundle themselves of scarves and coats and hang them on coat hooks at the start of the hallway. Emilia loosely ties her hair up into a ponytail before taking the bag from Hannibal. “I can put these away.” Before he can argue that he’s fine with doing it himself, she’s already halfway down the hallway. She looks into the bag again, noting the different vegetables and herbs she’s selected, and wonders if her Papa will let her help make this dinner.

The living room is empty as she strides through it, smiling down at the dogs that have taken it upon themselves to lie in front of a lit fire on one side of the room. They raise their heads as she comes over to give them both a pat. “My good boys,” she coos, smiling brightly at their tails tiredly thumping against the floor.

Her ears prick at the sound of movement in the kitchen. “Dad?” she calls over her shoulder.

“In here,” he answers, voice coming from the kitchen. She stands back up, carrying the bag of produce, before her Dad is standing at the doorway to the kitchen before her. His face is unreadable. “You've got a visitor.”

Emilia’s eyes flicker over her Dad’s face. Usually, she’s able to pick out emotions worn on his face. But she can’t find any. His walls are up.

Looking over his shoulder, she glances into the kitchen. Her breath catches in her throat.

Sitting at the kitchen island, hands clasped together on the marble worktop, sits Marco. She stares blankly at him for a moment. Her heart hammers against her ribcage.

One of her Dad’s hands goes to her shoulder – a firm, reassuring touch that everything’s fine.

She blinks when her eyes start to sting. Her mouth opens and closes, but no words seem to be coming out. Behind her, her Papa’s footsteps fall firmly against the hardwood floor of the living room as he approaches the kitchen. Will looks over Emilia’s shoulder, making the other man stop in his tracks with a firm glare.

Marco’s eyes have darkened slightly, and his face looks more gaunt than usual. Distantly she hopes that she doesn’t look as miserable as he does. When he speaks, his voice is cracked. “Hi Emilia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're getting quite a lot of updates because I still have to do an essay for one module of my course. Once that's done, I'm free.


	27. Florence, Italy

As her name leaves his lips – her _real_ name – everything else around her starts to blur and fade away. It’s only the sudden and firm touch of her Dad’s hand around her elbow that makes everything stay exactly where it is. “We’ll be in the next room if you need us, okay?” he says lowly into her ear. _We’ll be next door if there’s trouble_ , is what he actually means. She can feel Papa’s presence behind her, but within a second, Will’s hand retreats from her elbow, grabs Hannibal’s hand, and leads him out of the kitchen back into the living room.

Suddenly alone in the kitchen with Marco, she sings her fingers twitching by her sides. “Why are you here?” The question alls out before she has a chance to shape it into something kinder. Marco sits quietly at the kitchen island, hands clasped together on the marble top. For the first time, she notes a mug of steaming coffee in front of him, half-empty. _Dad must have given it to him_ , she thinks.

“I needed to see you,” is the only response he gives. With daylight spilling into the kitchen from the bay windows that run along the walls of the kitchen, the room and everything within it is cuttingly bright. She finds enough awareness to walk into the kitchen, keeping to the other side of the island. Its wide enough to keep a firm amount of space between them.

Emilia looks down at the swirling white lines within the marble. “I suppose you read the letter then.”

Marco nods stiffly.

“And here you are,” Emilia’s voice twinges with disbelieving marvel. He knows, then. He knows how she killed two people – one in deliberate cold blood – and felt no remorse. He knows her real name. He knows about her fathers, where she came from, who she is.

Marco shrugs a shoulder – a slight movement. “And here I am.”

Her breath catches suddenly in her throat. They stare at each other for a moment. Marco’s eyes have sunken, she realises. Dark shadows have lodged themselves underneath his eyelids. His gaunt face and features are more defined now, and for a brief moment, she entertains the notion that he might not have eaten properly within the last few days.

Marco pushes back from the kitchen island – the chairs legs screeching against the tile flooring – and rounds it. Something makes Emilia’s legs move backwards in time with Marco’s approaching footfalls. It makes him pause. “What’s wrong?”

“Why are you here?”

“I told you. I had to see you-”

“-No, no, _why_ are you _here_?” she presses. If he knows everything then, why hasn’t he gone to the police? Why hasn’t their home been swarmed with Interpol agents yet?

As the questions flood her mind, she misses him striding over to her and catching her hands in his. The touch is familiar – one they’ve shared over months of wandering through Florence’s streets. It takes every ounce of effort not to let her body jerk her hands from his.

“I wanted to speak to you about it...about all of it. And you weren’t here. Your dad said that you had gone out, and that you’d be back within an hour.”

 _He must have come when Papa and I just left, then_.

“So your dad invited me in, gave me coffee, and we talked for a little bit.”

Emilia blanches. “About...”

Marco shakes his head. Curls bounce with the movement. “No. He said that that kind of thing was for you and me to discuss.”

 _Sounds like Dad_. “What did you talk about then?”

A small, barely-there smile curls along his lip. “You.”

 

* * *

 

 

“ _No_ , Hannibal.” For what seems to be the hundredth time, Will pulls the other man back down to sit on the couch. This time, once Hannibal’s down, Will interlinks his arm around the other man’s.

Hannibal sighs, defeated. “Why is he even here?”

“He wanted to see Emilia,” Will rolls his eyes. “Let them talk. If something does happen, then you have my permission to burst in there.”

Hannibal arches a pale eyebrow at him. “Oh, so now I need your _permission_ to protect my daughter?”

Will nudges his shoulder. “You know what I meant.”

He watches Hannibal turn his attention back to the door of the kitchen, ears almost pricked, listening for the faintest sound of alarm. He’s tensed slightly against Will’s side.

“He’s a good kid,” Will says, trying to soothe, “and besides, Emilia has proven that she can handle her own.”

 

* * *

 

Sitting at either end of the kitchen island, Emilia twirls a simple silver ring around her index finger: a habit she’s always had.

“I know who your parents are,” Marco says slowly, glancing down at his own hands, “I read about them before. I knew what kind of things they did back in America.”

Emilia tries to stop a wince.

“And, oddly, I knew they had their own reasons for doing what they did. As did you, I’m sure.”

She has to gnaw at the inside of her cheek for a moment. “I felt that it was something I had to do.”

Marco nods after a moment. “I don’t know what worries me more; the fact that I’m in an apartment full of killers, or that I don’t care at all.”

At that, Emilia pauses. A breath escapes her nose as a sharp exhale. Something heavy drops into the pit of her stomach as Marco reaches for her hands again. Her muscles twinge under his touch. She forgot how warm he is. With fingers agile enough to pry Emilia’s own from each other, Marco sighs. “I’m not afraid of you, you know. I probably should be, but I’m not.”

A hot tear suddenly streams down her cheek. “You didn’t even know my name,” she sniffs.

Marco lets go of her hands to come around the kitchen island again and stand beside her. One of his hands reaches for one of hers, while he wipes flowing tears from her face with his other hand. “I knew who you were: I know that you always pick the olives off of pizza at Morelli’s when they put them on, because you don’t want to hassle them with a custom order. I know that you love books and, if given the opportunity, you’d buy out the bookshop near the plaza.”

He ducks his head just enough to catch her eye. “I know when you’re anxious, you can’t look people in the eye.”

When Emilia does look at him, she pauses.

“I knew _exactly_ who you were. I just knew you by a different name,” he continues. He tilts his head slightly. “And I don’t care. I still want to be with you. If you want me, of course.”

Her throat constricts as her heart hammers against her ribcage. Distantly she worries that her heart might just burst through her ribs and fall wetly on to the marble worktop of the island. Regardless she finds more tears sliding down her cheeks, and a choked laugh suddenly bubbles up through her throat.

“I missed you,” her voice cracks, “I was so worried that you’d never want to see me again after knowing everything-”

“ _Caro_ ,” Marco pulls her into a firm hug, wrapping his arms around her. “I love you far too much to be chased away.”

Burying her face into his shoulder, she lets herself cry. Her arms are tight around him; almost certainly crushing him but he doesn’t seem to mind. She doesn’t know how long she spends crying into his shoulder and holding on to him, as if he’d slip away, but soon enough the tears evaporate and she tries to catch her breath. He runs a hand up and down her spine: like he always did whenever she cries.

“We might have to leave, my parents and I,” she mumbles as she pulls away, sitting back up in her hair. Marco’s face is unreadable. “If someone finds out, my parents would make us leave-”

“-So I’ll come with you,” Marco reasons, “if that’s okay with them, of course.”

“But your _nonna-_ ”

“-Will think that I’m just taking an extended vacation with my girlfriend and her family.”

Her heart pangs at _girlfriend_.

“And I’ll come back here, of course. My nonna wants to keep an eye on me, so I’ll come back to her of course. And my lessons with Santoro will last another year or so. But when I’m free of all of that, I can be with you wherever it is that you might be.”

 _It could work_... _if Papa and Dad say yes. Of course they’ll say yes...why wouldn’t they_.

“Come on then, Alfonsi,” she sniffs, grasping his hand in hers as she stands from the kitchen island. Marco’s fingers tighten around hers.

They’re both waiting for them as Emilia and Marco both step out of the kitchen and into the living room. The hearth has a soft fire in it, heating the room but Emilia can’t stop the shiver that wracks up her spine.

Papa is the first one to see them: eyes already locked on to the door to the kitchen. She knows that he must have spent the entire time they were talking staring at it. Dad had been reading a book, one arm tightly intertwined with Papa’s.

When they step out into the living room, Dad looks up from his book. “Everything okay?” In the back of her mind, she knows that he’s probably been on that page the whole time, unable to read, and listening closely to them talking instead.

But Emilia nods. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” At that, Dad smiles softly, and puts his book down on the coffee table in front of them. Emilia doesn’t miss how he keeps his arm and Papa’s joined.

“Good. Now,” he turns to look at Papa, “shouldn’t you get started on lunch?”

Papa wrenches his gaze from the two of them to glower at Dad. They seem to have an entire conversation by eye-contact alone before he sighs. “I suppose I should...if all is well.”

 

* * *

 

 

Marco stays for lunch. It isn’t lost on her how this is the first time where he gets to talk to both of her parents. She could only imagine what Dad really said to him as they waited for her and Papa to come back from the markets. Now, though, he sits beside her at their dining table, conversing casually with Dad as Papa still brings out trays of pasta and cured meats.

She’s aware of the glances Dad is shooting in their direction. There’s a small ghost of a smile on his lips whenever Emilia manages to catch him staring. When Papa joins them it’s not at his usual spot at their table, but rather, beside Dad near the top of the table: facing her. As they self-serve and pluck at spinach and ricotta-stuffed ravioli, slices of salami, and simple salad, Emilia notes how...relaxed...the air around them is. They eat and catch among themselves. She finds herself relaxing into the back of her chair, shoulders sagging slightly, as she tries to follow a conversation between Papa and Marco in Italian. A quick glance over at Dad shows he’s just as lost as she is. Although she managed to have a grasp on the language, she just can’t keep up with Papa and Marco discussing...whatever it is...that they’re discussing. She does watch them smile thought: and something Marco says manages to earn a small chuckle out of Papa.

Dad gives her a look. _He’s a keeper._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Will being a Happy Dad at EVERYTHING BEING FINE.  
> 
> 
> This took a while because, essentially, I had to retake an assignment for a college module I took last semester to graduate. Long story short, between the stress of writing the essay and having everything arranged between my lecturer and the administration office (even though that isn't my job but hey-ho) writing creatively took a back seat for a while. But now it's submitted (thank fucking GOD), and I'm getting results this coming Friday (oh no), and your gal will have GRADUATED. YEET.
> 
> And, radical concept, as far as main-plot-story goes, Emilia's romps through Europe have come to a close (until I can think of something else for her to do lol). What will follow are the snippet-like chapters that this fic started with.


	28. 2017: The First Few Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Documenting Will's thoughts on the first few days that Emilia spends living with the Husbands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of the drabbles I'm going to be writing about this universe. I have a couple lined up: either taking place during this universe, behind the scenes, or taking place in the future post-this series.

The small bundle clinging to his torso makes it difficult to row. He tries his best, dragging the oars of the small boat through choppy waves. Getting back to the shore seems to take hours. The muscles in his arms start to throb and pulse with every stroke: a feeling that starts to fade away when he takes his eyes off the horizon and looks down at what’s perched in his lap, pressed tightly against his chest.

“You’re alright,” he says – the words are almost lost over the waves. But he says them anyway. “Everything’s okay. You’re safe now.”

The edge of the shore is lost in the darkness. He can make out the night lanterns people have put out, illuminating the folded up parasols and deck chairs of the beach. The city, perched on a slightly raised hill, is lit with street lamps. Distantly, he can hear the muffled sounds of people flooding out of restaurants and small bars as they close for the night.

The bundle in his lap shifts as they draw closer. Will takes his eyes off of the shore and looks down again. This time, he’s met with two big brown eyes staring back up at him. Bundled tightly in the first blanket he managed to gather, all that pokes out is her face. _She can’t be more than four._

“We’re almost there, okay?” A couple of more rows have them close enough for Will to step out of the boat and haul it to shore. The child in his lap seems unmoving, even as he stops rowing and shuffles to get up. The arms around him tighten suddenly, and the child whines into his chest. _This isn’t going to work_. He retracts the oars and places them within the boat, happy to let the lapping waves lull them towards the shore. They drift slightly, but the beach is empty of people: for the first time in what seems like months. He supposes with tourist like those he killed out of the way, the town will be quieter from now on.

When the boat knocks against the shore, the child tightens her hold on him again. This time, he wraps his own arms around her and hauls her up, carrying her out of the boat and on to shore. With a quick glance around, happy that the beach is, in fact, empty, he makes his way towards the town.

 

* * *

 

 

“Trauma affects every child differently. We don’t know to what extent tonight’s events will affect her just yet. Unfortunately, we’ll just have to wait.”

They both stand by the door of the spare bedroom. After a quick once-over by Hannibal, the other man was happy enough to put the girl down for a rest. It took almost an hour: Will tried depositing her down on to the bed but her arms locked tightly around his neck. Only within the last couple of minutes did she nod off to sleep and her hold on him released. As both men stand at the opened doorway of the room, they keep a vigil of the sleeping girl.

Will sighs. “We’ll need to move after this.” He keeps his voice low. Even still, it feels like it might shatter the silence that has fallen around the house. “I know no-one will miss her parents. Tourists that come in on the boats only stay for a couple of days. But they’ll notice us suddenly having the girl.”

Hannibal nods: a small movement that the other man nearly misses. “I’ll contact Chiyoh in the morning. She’ll know whether or not my other safe-houses are liveable conditions.”

The bundle on the bed shuffles, and for a split, anxious second, Will thinks that the girl has woken up. But she shuffles around a little bit before settling down again. In the back of his mind, he knows that one of them might just have to stay up during the night, keeping a quiet vigil over her, just in case she really does wake up and starts panicking.

He feels Hannibal shift closer to his side. “Go back to bed,” he mumbles, dropping his head to press a kiss on Will’s shoulder. “But take a shower first. You smell of the sea.”

 

* * *

 

 

It surprised him. She spoke to them the next day. _Both_ of them. He watches from the doorway of their kitchen at how she watches the other man stretch dough, folding it back on itself, and kneading it until it’s smooth. When he looks a bit closer, he notices how undivided her attention is. Perched upon a small stool, she tries her own hand at it when Hannibal cuts off a straggly bit of un-kneaded dough and gestures to it. “Use the heel of your hand,” he shows her, taking her hand gently in his and placing her palm into the dough. “And stretch, like this.”

Will tilts his head. He searches her face for any trace of what he saw last night: terror, uncertainty. None of it is there. It’s almost like last night didn’t happen at all. That she’s been their child this entire time.

His heart constricts in his chest.

 

* * *

 

 

Getting out of the town isn’t difficult. It’s not the first safe house he and Hannibal have annexed on their life together after the Red Dragon. First, there was the boat that Chiyoh manned for months, tending to them both, waiting until they were strong enough for her to leave them to their own devices. Then there were houses dotted along the South America coast. Hannibal always mentioned his houses: all dotted around various corners of the world.

Will hauls the last of their suitcases into the trunk of their car. They’ve got their packing time down to a couple of hours now. _Only the essentials_ , Hannibal always states simply. What constitutes as _essentials_ differ between them, as Will watches with rolled eyes when Hannibal has more bags than him. Always.

Chiyoh stands by the driver’s door of the car. Her arms are folded over her chest, face set in an unreadable scowl.

“A child?” is the first thing that she says to him ever since she arrived at the front of their house almost an hour ago.

Will looks up when he’s finished stuffing the last of the cases into the car. He follows her gaze back to their house, face turning fond when he sees Hannibal escort Emilia out of the house: her hand clutching tightly in his. Her other hand is by her mouth: the skin around her thumbnail being bitten as a nervous habit. Hannibal makes no move to bat it away.

Will doesn’t look back at the woman. “Will it be a problem?”

He can hear Chiyoh shift her weight from foot to foot, the movement disturbing the gravel that makes up their driveway. A frustrated – if not tired – huff of breath leaves through her nose. “No.”


	29. 2022: Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emilia catches the flu, or: The Eventual Sick!Fic We All knew I Would Eventually Write

It’s not that Emilia doesn’t like going to school. She likes school. More specifically, she likes learning. Every book both of her fathers have gotten her has been read within a couple of days (hours, depending if it’s short). She’s even corned her Papa on several occasions, asking him to please let her read the books he has in his office because he has far too many to read by himself and could need some help getting through them.   

She just doesn’t like _this_ school.

More specifically, she doesn’t like Frau Alscher.

So it doesn’t surprise Hannibal one bit that while he has waited for her for almost ten minutes now at the bottom of the stairs, she’s nowhere in sight. “Emilia?” he calls up, knowing that she’s able to hear him, “you’ll be late if you don’t hurry.”

There’s a routine in place – it has been for the last couple of months of their stay here. Will usually is the one to take her to school. It’s only two streets away. He’ll be the first one to get up, get dressed, wake her, and arrange everything for the morning. Within the last couple of days, Hannibal has taken on that role. He left Will this morning, curled up in bed, sleeping peacefully. He hardly twitched in his sleep as Hannibal left.

When he doesn’t get a reply from Emilia, he sighs through his nose. He hangs his coat back up on the hooks beside the front door to their house, and ascends the stairs. “Emilia?” he’s mindful of the volume of his voice. If Emilia can hear him, so can Will. When he gets to the top of the stairs, he frowns. Her bedroom door is still shut. Usually, Emilia would wake herself up. As either Hannibal or Will got ready to take her to school, she would patter around the landing, walking into the bathroom to brush her teeth and do her hair, find wherever it was that she threw her uniform the evening before. To see her door closed and no sign that she’s even left her room, he worries.

He knocks gently on the door. “Emilia?” He strains to hear a reply. What he does hear is shuffling among bedding, and a soft whine. Hannibal’s hand goes to the door handle within seconds.

Inside, he spots the girl still wrapped up in the thick bedding, almost like it’s drowning her. He sighs again, stepping into her room. The curtains are still pulled, with only a sliver of light trailing its way across the floorboards. “Emilia, it’s time to go to school.”

His ears prick when a sniffle suddenly comes from the bundle. The further he walks into her room, the more pungent the smell becomes. There’s something in the air around him. Out of a small cocoon of blankets, she peers out at him. “I don’t feel well, Papa,” she mumbles, her mouth covered by her bedding. His expression softens. She never gets sick: he makes sure of it. Both he and Will have too many injuries to contend with already; he doesn’t want to worry about their daughter catching something from the other children in school. He makes sure she’s vaccinated, topped up on vitamins, and is as healthy as she can be.

“Are you cold?” He notes how she’s completely wrapped herself in her bedding.

She nods, wincing suddenly.

“Alright. Let me see.” He rests the back of his hand against her forehead, frowning. Strands of blond hair are stuck to her with sweat, and heat radiates against his hand. “You have quite a fever, princess,” he hums, looking her over. As she blinks up at him, he realises how violently she’s shaking. Her teeth clatter. “I’ll call the school and tell them that you’re ill.” He makes a space for himself to sit down on the edge of her bed. “What I need you to do is sleep. Try to get as much of it as you can.”

She shuffles within her bundle, freeing her mouth. “I've got a headache,” she mumbles.

Hannibal tilts his head. “Where?” He points to his own head, starting at his forehead. “Here?” He gets a small headshake as a reply.  It takes a couple of guesses before he’s located the source of the headache. The temples. Hannibal nods. “I can get you some pain relief, _dovana_. But do try to get some sleep first, okay?”

Again, he can make out a small movement resembling a nod. “If you need anything, I’ll be around today.”

“Are you not working today?”

“Another doctor can take over for me today,” he reasons, happy that she seems to mull the answer over for a moment before nodding again. Her eyelids flicker closed before it’s apparent that she’s slipped off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Pain relief is in the form of pills he picked up in various pharmacies throughout Munich. He has a collection of antibiotics and bottles of morphine pills, but they’re reserved for him and Will: flare-ups of old injuries are becoming more and more frequent of late, and their stocks need to be kept under lock. When he steps back out into the bedroom, he pauses slight when he realises Will is awake.

A mussed-up head of curls lifts itself from the pillow before a hand smoothes them over. He clears his throat, frowning slightly. “What’re you still doin’ here? Shouldn’ Emmy be at school?”

“She has a fever,” he replies, checking over the worn labels of pill bottles he’s sourced. They make sure their medication is always up to date, but you can never be too careful.

At his answer, Will suddenly sits up on the bed. Before he can say anything, Hannibal holds up his hand. “It’s a fever. She’s got chills and a headache, but it’s probably nothing more than the flu. I can give her pain relief for the headache, but she needs to rest.”

“What about the school?”

“I’ve already called them to say she’ll be absent.”

“And your patients?”

“Referred to other psychiatrists within the area.”

“Do you need help with anything?”

Hannibal gives him a look that’s almost fond. “No, _mano meile_. She’s asleep now. When she wakes up, I’ll give her something that might help her headache.”

Despite having it under control, he watches Will untangle himself from the sheets wrapped tightly around him. “Okay,” he sighs, running his fingers through his curls. With every movement, some spring up in wild directions: emphasising how long his hair has gotten in the past few months. He looks around their room blearily for a moment. When he gets out of bed, he walks passed Hannibal and straight for their ensuite. “Go and help her out. I’ll be with you guys in a minute.”

 

* * *

 

 

Best case scenario: she has a cold. A pretty bad cold, but a cold nonetheless.

Worst case scenario: she has the flu.

Once Will has shaken himself awake, he peers into Emilia’s room. Hannibal’s left the door slightly ajar – something that, if she wasn’t half-unconscious, would annoy her. But he looks inside regardless, looking at the small, blanket-covered lump on the bed.

He doesn’t linger. Sleep will be the best thing for her. When he steps back from the door, his ears prick at the sound of soft footfalls coming up the staircase. “She’s shaking like a leaf,” he whispers as Hannibal joins him on the landing.

Hannibal nods. “She has a fever. It’s working its way out of her body.”

Still, Will frowns. “She’s never been sick...let alone _this_ sick.” He throws a quick glance back to the ajar door. “Do you think she should go to the hospital?”

Suddenly, Hannibal’s hand is within one of his. “She’ll be fine, Will. All children get sick. She was eventually going to catch something.”

Will doesn’t miss the way Hannibal squeezes his hand. There’s a brief silent moment between them before Hannibal looks towards the door. A split second later, Will hears it: muffled coughing and a raspy call of _Papa._

“I’ll watch over her,” Will whispers, “you have a broth to look after downstairs.”

“A broth can boil by itself-”

“-Go,” Will gently urges, “you’ve been at her bedside all morning.”

As Hannibal eventually turns on his heel to head back downstairs, Will goes towards Emilia’s room. Even with the curtains still drawn, the room isn’t pitch black. It’s slightly lit: enough for Will to navigate clothes and dolls strewn around the floor. “Hey baby,” he keeps his voice low. He smiles when the girl’s head peers out from the wraps of blankets around her. “How’re you feeling?”

She coughs again. “Bad,” she rasps. Her throat must be raw by now. Two glasses are on her bedside table, one empty and one half-full of water. The broth being cooked down below will help, but Hannibal’s been working on it for a while now. Until then, they’re making do. Beady eyes blink at him. “Won’t you and Papa get sick?”

Will shakes his head. “Probably not, baby. Remember when Papa brought us to _Arzt_ Hoefler to get those injections?”

She nods. Will remembers it too vividly. They learned pretty quickly how much Emilia hates needles. Even though _Arzt_ Hoefler has been friendly towards Hannibal and his family, and was the one to give out the flu vaccinations, Will can still remember how tightly Emilia clung on to him. “They help people not get the flu. You might have picked something up in school, baby, but it will pass soon. Don’t worry.”

Another bout of coughs erupts from her, shaking her entire tiny frame. Will reaches forward, pulls some of her blankets away from her face, and lays the back of his hand against her forehead. He frowns. Her skin is damp with sweat. “That’s your fever starting to pack its bags. You’ll be feeling much better when it’s gone.”

“Tell you what,” he leans down slightly, throwing a quick glance towards the door, “I’ll get the tablet, load up a couple of movies of your choosing, and we’ll have a lazy day. How about it?”

Even pale and sweating, she smiles. “Okay.”

It takes him a couple of minutes to rummage through his bedroom to find the tablet Hannibal stashed away, but once it’s found he rearranges the pillows at the head of his and Hannibal’s bed. While a couple of movies start downloading, he goes back to collect Emilia. “All ready for you, Princess Emilia,” he announces, managing to scoop her, and her tight cocoon of blankets, into his arms and carry her to his own room. With her head against his shoulder, he hears a soft giggle. Followed by a cough.

It’s not a far walk between the two rooms, and within a few moments, Will has Emilia gently deposited down on to the bed, propped up against a small mountain of pillows. “Comfy?” he asks, drawing up her blankets to her chin. She smiles at him, nodding. Her eyes look a bit brighter than earlier.

He plucks up the tablet and seats himself beside her, stretching out his legs. “Alright then baby, what do you want to watch first?”

 

* * *

 

 

Hannibal skims the last traces of fat from the surface of the broth. Bubbling away since this morning, he inspects the broth for a moment. Happy that it’s clear, he spoons a couple of ladles into a bowl. As he waits for it to cool slightly, he strains his ears: listening for sounds upstairs. All is quiet. Even with the knowledge that Emilia is probably sleeping, and Will is keeping watch, he can’t help but be cautious at how quiet the house actually is. It reminds him faintly of living back in Baltimore, alone in a house similar to this one: big and sprawling. Now, he has Will and Emilia to fill it out; but back there, almost a lifetime ago, he didn’t realise how big his house used to be when he occupied it alone.

He moves the pot of broth off the heat, puts a lid on it, and turns off the burner. With the bowl of broth in his hand, he starts his journey upstairs. His footfalls are soft against the hardwood floor of the steps, with the occasional creak breaking the quiet every so often. When he reaches the landing, he frowns at Emilia’s door being wide open. He peers inside. Her bed is empty, with her blankets strung over the side of the bed and hanging down on to the floor.

He looks over his shoulder to his own bedroom. Straining his ears, he hears the faintest sounds of a movie playing. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He pushes open the door of his bedroom with his shoulder, and pauses at the threshold of what he finds inside: his husband and daughter both resting comfortably, a tablet held between them playing some animated movie that Emilia finds enjoyable.

Will spots him and brings a finger to his lips. _Quiet_. As Hannibal shifts his gaze down to Will’s side, he spots Emilia, hand clutching at a portion of Will’s t-shirt, and sleeping peacefully against him. Hannibal walks to the other side of the bed, putting down the bowl of broth on the bedside table. He tries not to disturb the bed too much as he mirrors Will’s position at the other side of the girl. Every breath Emilia takes is a soft wheeze. Hannibal brushes a few strands of blond hair from her forehead, stuck there by sweat. At the touch, she snuffles against Will’s side.

“I’m sorry, my darling, but you need to eat something,” Hannibal says softly. Will’s raises his gaze to Hannibal. He’s never heard _that_ tone of voice before. A quick, fleeting flash of Hannibal caring for a young girl appears in front of him: a younger Hannibal sitting by the bedside of a girl with sharp features similar to his own. Just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone.

Emilia doesn’t seem to fond of moving, choosing instead to bury her face into Will’s side.

“Please baby,” Will coaxes, moving the powered-down tablet out of the way and gesturing for the bowl. Hannibal passes it to him wordlessly. At that, Emilia moves slightly, peering up at him. Her gaze shifts over to the bowl in his hand. He sees her nose wrinkle.

“Just a little bit,” he says, “and then you can go back to sleep.”

“I wanna watch a movie,” she mumbles.

Will smiles. “Okay, if that’s what you want.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You coddle her.”

It’s not a criticism. There’s no heat behind the words. But they do make Will pause at the threshold of their ensuite as he steps back into their bedroom. Dressed down for the night in loose sleep pants, he watches Hannibal put away his book.

Will shrugs his good shoulder. “She deserves to be coddled.”

Hannibal muses over the reply for a moment before humming. “She should be feeling better tomorrow. The first day of a flu is often the worst.”

Will strides over to his own side of the bed. He takes his time with turning down his sheets. “She’s a kid. Kids get sick. This will all happen again before you know it.”

“As long as she doesn’t pick up anything serious,” Hannibal says, watching Will climb into bed form the corner of his eye, “I’m happy to let that be.”

Once settled, Will just lies on his back for a moment, staring up at the ceiling.

“Something troubles you,” Hannibal’s voice suddenly fills the quiet that had settled over the room.

“Some stellar psychiatry work there, Dr Lecter.”

“Don’t be crass.”

Will bites the inside of his good cheek. On the other side, he can still feel the slightly puckered skin of the scar left by the Dragon. Hannibal stitched him up as well as he could have, while tending to injuries of his own, but still: all Will was ever left with was a slightly bothersome line of raised skin inside his mouth and a faint line on his cheek. It’s only noticeable when he’s trying to grow out his beard and the scar-line doesn’t fill in.

“It’s nothing. Really,” he looks over to the other man. Hannibal doesn’t look convinced. Before he can open his mouth, Will cuts in. “Emilia will probably look for us during the night. Get some sleep.”

Hannibal sets his jaw slightly, but nods. “Goodnight, my love,” he says, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to Will’s lips before turning to face the bay windows. Will watches the expanse of Hannibal’s back for a moment, littered with various scars, before turning away to the other direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Note: I've a couple of these prompts written and I've come to a fucking conclusion: THEY ALL END WITH HANNIBAL AND WILL IN BED REVISING THE EVENT BEFORE. It's like a cuddle-y TL:DR.


	30. 2018 - Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares aren't welcome in the Graham-Lecter household.

The nightmares are a regular occurrence. In the nights following her ‘adoption’, one of them has to stay awake with her. They’ll take turns, but it’s always one of them. Even when they fled to France, to a small village with a population that doesn’t even breach fifty people, they still hold nightly vigils for her.

White moonlight crawls along the wooden floorboards of the room, peering through a slight gap in the curtains. Will watches the beam of light for a moment before looking outside. Through the gap, he can see vast sprawling darkness. The nearest city is easily an hour’s drive away. There’re no streetlights out here: only moonlight and blinking stars, all gazing down at everyone who sleeps.

His attention is suddenly caught when there’s shuffling by his side. A deep-set brow creases along her forehead. Will combs his fingers through her hair, gently, careful not to wake her. She’ll climb out of these nightmares herself. It’s just a matter of waiting. He can’t help but keep his eyes on her though: as if some dark tendril will reach out of the shadows and drag her away.

Tonight’s nightmare doesn’t seem bad. It’s too early to say, though: it’s only turned midnight. Usually, she would have woken by now, whimpering or crying into her pillow and seeking out either father for comfort. There have been a handful of times where she’s escaped to their room: lodging herself between the two of them and staying for the night. Neither of them mind. Will knows that both he and Hannibal are more than capable of chasing away any nightmare monsters from their little girl.

She shuffles beneath her blankets, turning on to her side to face Will. He sees a small frown etched into her brow: covered slightly by strands of blonde hair that wisp down. His fingers twitch where they rest on his thigh. He wants to brush her hair out of her face. But jostling her now, on the cusp of a nightmare, could make everything worse.

And he doesn’t want her to spend the night awake and fearful.

It doesn’t stop something in her mind rousing her though. The frown on her brow deepens and shadows until her face contorts. This is the beginning of it, he knows. This is how they always start. Within a couple of seconds, he can hear it: faint whimpering.

“Baby,” Will whispers, gently placing his hand on her covered shoulder. The nightmare won’t grasp at her tonight. Her eyelids flicker open, and for a moment, her brown eyes dart around the room: evaluating if she’s safe. He coaxes her further into wakefulness. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Even though tonight’s nightmare hasn’t claimed her for itself, as the others do, she still shuffles towards Will, throwing out an arm: a silent plead to be held. Something in her eyes is still frightened. Her bed is just wide enough to allow him to shuffle around so he can sit with his back against the headboard. Emilia wordlessly shuffles to his side, taking her blanket with her. It’s a lavender-coloured fleece blanket. Hannibal bought it for her when she was still a new addition to their lives. She’s kept it through various moves around the world. In their haste moves from one location to another, they operate under a rule of only bringing the essentials: her blanket is always the first thing that she grabs.

When she’s settled against Will’s side, he lets his head thump back against the wall behind him.

“I hate it,” she mutters against her fist, clenched and held against her mouth. “Nightmares suck.”

Will frowns. “Emmy, language please.”

“But it does.” Her voice is mumbled: more of a sulk. Will looks down at her. Curled against his side, he grasps at how small she actually is. It’s been a couple of years since her adoption, but every so often – and on too many occasions – he’ll look at her and see that same scared little girl in the corner of the family boat. It’s the same girl who gets tormented by nightly demons.

He moves her blanket around; making sure it’s wrapped firmly over her shoulders. Like a shield.

“You know,” Will sighs through his nose, “Daddy has nightmares too.”

Emilia blinks at him for a moment, before he pulls her first from her mouth. “Really?” Her voice is soft and barely audible.

“I used to get them every night,” he explains softly, careful not to disturb the quiet of the room, “and I thought I would always have them.”

Big brown eyes stare up at him, unblinking. “Do you still have them?”

Will nods after a moment. “Sometimes, but they’re not as bad now.”

There’s a small pause.

Her voice is nothing but a whisper. “Were they scary?”

“They were really scary,” Will replies, shaking away the memories of his life before that threaten to appear. “But the really bad ones eventually went away.”

She tilts her head. Her eyebrows knit together. “How?”

“Your father protects me when I sleep,” he says softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face “just like how we protect you when you sleep.” In the corner of Will’s eye, he can see the too familiar figure of Hannibal standing at the doorway to the room, hidden slightly by the ajar door. Lurking in the shadows, but not threatening: an observant protector keeping an eye on those he loves. “When my nightmares get bad, your father helps me.”

“Like when you help me through mine?” Will nods. “Will mine eventually go away like yours did?”

He can’t bring himself to lie to her. “Probably, baby. But it will take some time. What your father and I can do is protect you from them for now. Then, you’ll get strong enough to fight them yourself.”

At that, he sees a brilliant smile overtake the girl’s face. Chubby cheeks with baby fat still clinging to them crease the lines around her eyes. “I can be strong. Like you and Papa.”

Will combs his fingers through her hair, brushing it over one shoulder. It spills down her back like a waterfall. “You’re going to be stronger than me and Papa."


	31. 2038 - Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 26-year-old Emilia has news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to look very fluffy and lovely, but be warned: I wrote this. Me: who can't let people be happy for more than a second before jabbing Real World Angst in there. 
> 
> (NOTHING TO DO WITH EMILIA'S NEWS, BY THE WAY. JUST IN CASE IF YOU GET TO FIGURING OUT WHAT IT IS, AND THINK THAT IT'S THAT, IT'S NOT. IT'S...SOMETHING ELSE.)

“They’re going to kill me,” is the first thing that leaves Marco’s mouth when she tells him. It’s closely followed by a panicked pacing around their bedroom, mutterings of “this is it. This is what they kill me for” leaving his lips moments later.

Emilia watches him from their bed, cross-legged, the test held in one of her hands. “You know,” she can’t help but smirk, “this isn’t the first thing that passes someone’s mind when their partner tells them that they’re pregnant.”

“ _Most people_ don’t have parents like yours.”

At that, she laughs. Distantly, in the back of her mind, she wondered and feared if her fathers _would_ actually kill him for just about anything. When they dined together, or vacationed together, Marco always held back from putting his arm around her shoulders or holding her hand; kissing was just out of the question. She did like torturing him; pressing chaste pecks on his high cheekbones or sitting a bit too close to him during meals. She liked the bright flush that would scatter across his cheeks as he would try to avoid eye contact with either of her fathers: even when they caught wind of what she was doing.

Some part of her entertains the notion that they’ll _definitely_ kill him for this.

“I think they have a right, you know,” she muses, her smirk growing when he arches his eyebrow at her. She sets the test aside – she’s spent too much time today staring at it already – and crawls to the end of their bed. “You obviously defiled their daughter – their _only child_. And before you’ve even married her. That’s ground for murder.”

Marco balks. “If anything, darling, you’re the defiler in all of this,” he says as he comes closer to their bed – close enough for Emilia to raise herself on to her knees, taking the hem of his shirt in her fingers. “I was innocent before you.”

“Low blow, Alfonsi,” she replies, “are you referring to my murderous ways, or other things?”

“I couldn’t give a shit about your _murderous ways_ ,” Marco’s own hands cup her face, thumbs caressing her cheekbones. He looks at her for a moment. “Are you sure?”

She laughs. “Trust me. I took four of those things.”

“And...are you...do you want...” he sighs, words obviously failing him.

“I know we said we’d wait until after the wedding, and most of that isn’t even planned out yet...” she says quietly, shuffling closer to wrap her arms loosely over his shoulders. “If you want to do this, let’s do it. We’ll have to change around some stuff, but we can do it...if you want to.”

It’s only then when panic starts to settle into her stomach. It drops and churns as Marco presses his forehead against hers. She’s spent enough time today worrying and stalking around their house, panicking because _she’s pregnant_.

“You’re my fiancé,” he mumbles, rubbing his nose against hers, “and you’re going to be my wife: we’ll do whatever you decide.”

 

* * *

 

 

They keep it to themselves for a number of days after that. During the nights, when Emilia finds herself awake with Marco sleeping soundly beside her, her mind will wander. One of her hands almost always finds its way to her abdomen, gently pressing against the ball of cells nestled in there. _What will eventually be your kid_ , her traitorous mind chimes in. When her mind turns vicious, moving from thoughts of meeting their child for the first time to images of losing it, she’ll turn to her side and burrow herself into Marco’s arms.

Their house on a suburban street in Geneva is a far way away from her fathers’. When she moved away from them, it was painful. The invisible tie holding them all together seemed to snap. They seemed happy knowing that it was Marco she would be moving in with, but still, she could never forget the slightly pained expressions they hid behind painted on smiles as Marco’s car pulled away from their house in a small village in Tuscany. To the best of her knowledge, they’re still there. They would always tell her if their position was ever compromised and they have to move.

Though, now that she thinks of it, she thinks that surely the FBI have put the Murder Husbands to rest. It’s been twenty-three years.

Now, pacing around her own house alone, with Marco at work, she twirls her phone around in her hand. On the screen, her Dad’s phone number is already typed out. _Fuck it_.

It rings three times before her Dad’s familiar voice comes through. “ _Emmy_ ,” he breathes, like they haven’t spoken to each other in years, “how're you?”

 ** _Knocked up and freaking out_**. “Fine, Dad. We’re all fine here,” she smiles, looking around the hallway she’s found herself in. “Are you and Papa still in Pitigliano?”

Faintly in the background, she manages to pick out the voice of her Papa. “Yeah, Emmy, we’re still here. Are you thinking of visiting?” Dad’s voice is tinged with what she suspects is excitement.

She’ll need to ask Marco. He works with the academics in the local university now. But there’s so many of them all researching and teaching Greek classics, that Marco can surely find someone to teach his classes for a couple of days. “Yeah. I need to see you and Papa.”

There’s a pause. “What’s up?”

She could almost laugh. He was a profiler. And a Dad. Even without saying anything, he’d be able to pick out the fact that there’s something wrong. “Nothing, I just...I haven’t seen you both in so long.”

“It’s been a month since you last visited, Emmy.”

“A month is a long time.”

“It sure is.”

The door to the house clicks open. Marco steps inside, tossing his coat up on to the hooks that are beside the front door. When he looks at Emilia, now leaning against the beginning railings of the stairs, he arches his eyebrow at the phone in her hand. _Parents?_ he mouths as he closes the door behind him.

Emilia nods. “Marco and I would love to visit you guys. Would next week work?”

Marco’s smile suddenly drops. _No Emilia. They’ll murder me_ , he whispers and shakes his head, stepping forward to snatch her phone from her hand. Emilia is quick to step back.

“I’ve to go now, Dad, but we’ll see you next week. Okay? Tell Papa I said hello.”

“You’ve signed my death warrant,” he huffs as she hangs up and pockets her phone.

Emilia rolls her eyes. “Hush. Go into the kitchen and start making dinner. I’m starving.”

 

* * *

 

 

Her fathers’ current home is a small townhouse in Pitigliano in Tuscany. They moved there a few years ago when it became apparent that Hannibal’s condition was only going to get worse. Although she maintains regular contact with her fathers’, calling them at least twice a week and making a point of visiting as often as she can, she can’t always be certain that the man that will greet her at the front door will be the same man who raised her.

They’ve all made their peace with it: Hannibal included. His coveted mind was starting to fail him; and although it would be a couple more years before anything significant reared its head, they can all see it. An uncoiling adder in his brain, ready to strike.

When Marco parks their car in the narrow streets of the town, just in front of the townhouse, he glances around. The caramel coloured cobblestones and brickwork remind him of Florence. Emilia looks the other way. Her fathers’ house, a large townhouse in comparison to the rest of the houses that line the street, is just big enough for them.

“Still nervous about telling them?” she asks, not taking her eyes off of the familiar front of the house. But she senses Marco shaking his head. At that, she can’t help but smile. “Bullshit. You nearly had a heart attack at the thought of asking their permission for you to propose to me.” She chooses then to look back at him. “You’re still shitting it.”

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about it constantly on the journey here.” Marco reaches over and takes one of Emilia’s hands in his. He runs his thumb over her engagement ring, twirling the band around her finger. “But they’re your parents. They deserve to know.”

Emilia nods. As they get out of the car, her heart pangs at the onslaught of aromas that coil around her in the street. A neighbour is baking loaves of bread, leaving them to cool on a windowsill. Pots of flowers line the streets with some baskets hanging from a couple of balconies: tendrils of roots coiling down, reaching for the cobblestone streets below. Marco joins her at the other side of the car, takes her hand, and they take a couple of steps towards the front door of her fathers’ house.

The door opens before they reach it, and they’re met by three small dogs that flood out on to the street and swirl around their legs. Even with greying fur around their muzzles, Dad’s most recent collected strays still act like pups.

Dad outstretches his arms to embrace Emilia in a firm hug. Its only been a couple of weeks since her last visit, but ever since she left the family home to live with Marco, she’s been missed. Will buries his nose into her hair at the top of her head. “It’s good to see you again, baby.”

Emilia manages to untangle herself from his hold. Marco stands off to the side; as he always does. He allows them to have their moment together. Though, since his _nonna_ ’s death a couple of years ago and his further estrangement from his father, Emilia’s parents have been kinder to him. When Will turns his attention to him, Marco worries about his heart beating so hard against his chest that it will burst through his ribcage and fall out on to the ground in between them. “Marco,” Will smiles, “good to see you too.”

“Likewise,” he bows his head slightly. His heart continues to hammer against his ribcage.

Will gestures to the opened door. “Come in. Hannibal’s making lunch. I’m sure there’s enough for two more.” He whistles sharply, calling for the dogs to follow him into the house. They all flood inside; brickwork and painted walls that stretch out towards a well-lit kitchen. As they walk and pass doorways that line the walls, Emilia glances into every one: a living room, a study. They’ve filled out the small space with their lives; collected knickknacks from various corners of the world objects that have followed them from previous houses. Pictures of them as a family line the walls and stand proudly perched on a few shelves.

Emilia smiles when they walk into the kitchen. Hannibal stands at the countertop, slicing through a red onion: transparent dices gathering to one side of the chopping board. Slices of cooked, white chicken breast and spinach leaves sit in small bowls to his side. She watches his hands for a brief moment; they don’t shake or tremble or hesitate. He’s his usual self. He glances over his shoulder as Will strides over to him, placing a hand on the small of his back and leaning in to mumble something in his ear. Hannibal looks over to where Emilia and Marco stand by the doorway. “ _Dovana_ ,” he smiles, leaving Will to continue on with preparing lunch. She’s pulled into a hug similar to the one her dad gave, but this one lingers. When she’s allowed to escape, Hannibal greets Marco with their usual Italian and a firm handshake. She doesn’t miss how, for a brief moment, Marco breaks eye contact to look down at the floor between them.

“Your last visit was only a couple of weeks ago, darling,” Hannibal turns back to Emilia, “and I’m certainly not complaining, but why do you join us again so soon?”

Emilia looks over to her fiancé – who suddenly swallows – before stating simply, “We have something to tell you both.”

Her fingers twitch by her side – a nervous habit that she’s never quite been able to shake off. She glances to the salad that’s in front of Will. “Can we discuss it over lunch?” It’s met with a short nod from Hannibal, who goes to fix up the last few things for their meal: two extra place settings and napkins. Emilia watches both of her fathers move around the kitchen, practically dancing around each other as they wordlessly navigate the space without even grazing. It’s a dance they’ve perfected over decades of knowing and living together. But they’re on alert now: she doesn’t miss how her dad’s shoulders are tensed and Hannibal looks troubled as he lays out the extra place settings.

When the table is set and the simple salad is served – ample portions complimented with a small bowl of small mozzarellas, plump tomatoes, and bottles of balsamic vinegar and olive oil – it’s then Emilia sets down her cutlery and clears her throat. “Marco and I are postponing the wedding,” she starts slowly, holding her hand up slightly when it looks like her Dad might just leap across the small table to drive his knife through Marco’s throat for potentially distressing his daughter, “it’s still going to happen! Just...not as soon as we planned.”

Will sets down his own knife and fork, food long forgotten. “Have you anything planned yet?” he asks, partially asking his husband as he knows Hannibal wanted to gift them both the funds to organise the wedding. Emilia and Marco both shake their heads. “How long will you be postponing it for?”

The question resonates with Emilia. What he actually wants to say to them remains in a cloud just above the table. _How long will you be postponing it for? Because your father isn’t going to get better._

Emilia swallows. “At least a year,” she rasps, suddenly trying to fight a growing lump in her throat. “Maybe even longer...”

Hannibal tilts his head. Both of her fathers’ eyes are on her: scrutinising. She can feel Marco’s fingers reach towards hers over the table, his pinkie curling over her own. She breathes in and out through her nose for a moment.

 _Just fucking say it_ , her mind bites.

“I’m pregnant.”

Once the words are out, and thrown out into the air between them, there’s a terrifying moment of stillness. They take a moment to register with her fathers. Her eyes dart between the two of them: her Dad’s once knitted brow straights out, before he breathes out a harsh breath. A smile suddenly erupts along his lips. “...You’re...?”

She doesn’t miss how Marco is _stock still_ beside her. Sitting opposite her Dad, he doesn’t dare lift his gaze from staring down at his finger over Emilia’s.

When she looks at her Papa, she swallows. “ _Tėvelis_? Did you hear me?“

Hannibal blinks. “I..I did, _dovana_ ,” he says slowly, words measured. It’s another fear-inducing moment before she can see a small smile starting to tug at the corners of his lips. “ _Are you certain?”_

A breathless laugh suddenly leaves her. “ _Yes, I’m certain._ ”

“No secret conversations at the table, please,” Will says, eyes narrowed at Hannibal before he turns his attention to Marco. “I don’t know why you’re looking like a deer caught in headlights, son, but there’s no need to be afraid.”

“To be honest, sir, I was afraid of telling you that she was pregnant, more than actually being afraid of her being pregnant in the first place.”

Will’s smile is lopsided. “Never be afraid of my husband and me, son.” And for a brief moment, his eyes turn cold and hard. “We’d only ever gut you if you ever had the nerve to break her heart. Which you would never do, right?”

Marco nods firmly.

The expression on Will’s face disappears just as quickly as it appeared. “Good lad.”  

 

* * *

 

 

“You know this means your father will expect you to visit us more.”

Emilia looks up from the sink, plate half submerged in the soapy water. Her Dad leans back against the counter, folding his arms in front of him. He looks...good. The Italian sun has always been kind to him. His skin as tanned evenly: hiding the faint lines of past scars that litter his face. His beard covers up the rest of it. “That’s hardly a bad thing,” she smiles, turning back to washing up the last of the dishes. She looks down at the job in hand, but lets her mind wander for a moment. “How...How has he been?”

The question is met with a moment of silence: like it always is.

“He’s...” Will breaks off, sighing through his nose, “he has his good days. And he has his bad days. But his bad days are days where he just gets confused. You know how stubborn he is: he’ll never admit that he can’t remember where he set down the keys to the house if he’s going out, or that he keeps mixing up the names of our neighbours.”

Emilia sends him a sideways glance. “And are the...bad days...frequent?”

Will shakes his head. “No. They happen, but they’re few and far between. Nothing major will be happening for a couple of years at this rate.”

She sets the last washed plate into the rack to drip-dry. Grabbing a towel to dry her hands, she bites the inside of her cheek. “I know he wants to see Marco and I married before...before.” She looks down at her ring finger. “He’s never said it out loud, but it’s what he worries about. I know that. And it will happen: Marco and I will get married, and he’ll be there arguing with you as to who gets to walk me down the aisle. And it will be the both of you because you won’t be able to compromise.”

She presses on when her Dad lowers his head. “And he’ll be there to see his grandchild born. And he’ll be there to see that baby grow into a child that he’ll spoil rotten.”

She reaches out, placing her hand on her father’s crossed arms. They loosen up enough so she can get herself pulled into a hug. She rests her chin on Will’s shoulder, rubbing his back reassuringly. “I need you to keep him going until then, okay?”

She feels his arms tightly squeeze around her, but not too tightly. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, like he always did when she was a child. Reassuring. “Everything will be fine.” He pulls away, glancing down at her middle. “Don’t ever worry about us, baby. I need you to focus on you now. Got it?”

Emilia smiles and nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real World Angst strikes again.
> 
> On an unrelated note, Google Pitigliano in Tuscany. It's gorgeous.


	32. 2022 - Eat the Rude (Part 1/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've been living in Munich for a while now. It was going to happen eventually.

Emilia’s _Grundschule_ is in the centre of the city, only a short walk from their house. Will lets the door of their townhouse shut behind him as he tucks his hands into his jacket pockets. Autumn is now starting to grow a chilly bite. Winter will be upon them shortly. As he walks down the steps of the house, he smiles curtly at a woman parking her car just beyond the gate. He vaguely recognises her as a patient of Hannibal’s. She waves as Will turns from the house and starts his walk towards the school. He prefers the German school system. Although there’s always some hassle to get Emilia awake and up for school at 7:30 in the morning, especially on a Saturday, she likes being able to come home at one in the afternoon.

Will likes it too. Hannibal’s insistent need to always be doing _something_ meant that as soon as they arrived and settled into their townhouse in Munich, he established a small counselling office. He keeps to himself during the day, locked away in that office with well-paying people coming to him for help. It’s money that, alongside Hannibal’s inheritance stashed away somewhere, and his small fortune gotten from his practice in the US (all hidden away during his incarceration), keeps them comfortably afloat. And although Hannibal makes a point of finishing appointments at two in the afternoon so he can spend the afternoon and evening with his family, Will spends much of the day by himself. It was a novelty to start with; and a novelty that got old very quickly.

It’s not lost on him how odd it sounds to rely on the company of an eight-year-old to keep somewhat sane, but it’s working.

As he walks down their street, neighbours out tending to their gardens at the front of their houses greet him. Occasionally he’s greeted briskly with a “ _hallo, Herr Miller_ ”, and the corners of his lips turn upwards. Even if his marriage to Hannibal isn’t _technically_ binding like a traditional marriage would be, there’s still a plain gold band on his ring finger that ingrains into his skin with every passing year.

The walk to the school takes no longer than usual. Parents – primarily mothers – all wait by the school’s gates; either leaning against the low, brick wall, idly chatting amongst themselves, or waiting in parked cars across the road. A couple of mothers smile at him as a greeting. The few fathers there he’s spoken to over the past couple of months; most of them are nice. Then there’s Johan.

The very man side-eyes him as he waits for his own kid. Johan apparently has a couple of problems with Will, according to one of the nicer mothers, Eloise, who told Will Johan’s problems with him as a cautionary warning to stay away from the man. The one that continuously keeps popping up every so often is Johan’s distaste for Will’s relationship with Hannibal.

Will’s only problem with Johan is his rudeness.

The end of day bell rings inside the school’s walls: the normally screeching sound muffled slightly. And like someone had opened floodgates, children start racing out on to the playground in front of the building. Among the sea of children, Will manages to spot Emilia. She’s sprinting through the crowd, racing alongside another boy, towards the gates of the school. They almost collide into them: their crash only stopped by outstretched hands.

Gasping for breath, Emilia manages, “ _Ich gewinne!”_

The boy shakes his head fiercely. “ _Du hast betrogen,_ Mina!”

Despite their apparent argument, both laugh – breath still escaping them. The boy isn’t much older than Emilia: but Will recognises him. They’re in the same classes together. He’s one of the few kids in the school that she gets along with. Among the cacophonous sounds of children playing and screaming in the playground, and parents trying to call them home, there’s a sharp shout of “ _Lucas_!”

The boy with Emilia winces, before the smile that had been plastered over his face disappears completely. With hunched shoulders, and without looking behind him towards the voice, he mumbles a “ _tschüss,_ Mina,” before walking away. Will watches the boy go: as does Emilia. His gaze eventually falls on Johan; a deep scowl etched into the man’s rounded red face that only grows deeper when he notices Will looking at him.

Will barely notices Emilia suddenly grasping and tugging at his arm. “Hello? _Ist jemand zuhause?_ ”

Even though he might not have as much German as either Hannibal or Emilia, Will still knows when he’s being insulted by his daughter. He arches his eyebrow at her. “You do know that I can understand you, right?”

It gets a giggle out of the girl. He lets her smaller gloved hand find his and within a few moments, they start their walk back home.

“Can we get ice cream?” she asks when they’re clear of any lingering parents and kids.

“No, baby. Papa will be starting dinner in an hour.”

It’s not enough to dissuade her. “We don’t have to tell Papa that we got any.”

Will snorts. “He’ll know.”

“How?”

“Because he’s Papa. And Papa knows everything.”

“Can you carry my bag, please?”

And with that, their conversation shifts into something different.

 

* * *

 

 

When they come into view of their house, Emilia’s hand slips from Will’s as the girl jogs forward towards their gate. Hannibal’s patient’s car is still parked outside; if it’s the same woman Will thinks she is, then she won’t be leaving for a while. Most people that come to Hannibal for counselling just need support. It’s not as heavy as therapy. And it certainly isn’t the therapy he used to practise back in Baltimore.

But this woman needs more than just support. Apparently.

Emilia waits outside the wrought iron gate for Will to catch up. She helps him undo the metal latch before racing inside, bounding up the steps to the front of the house: taking two at a time.

“I hope you have some energy stored away to do your homework?” Will shuts the gate behind him and searches for his keys in his jacket pocket.

Emilia brushes some stray strands of blonde hair from her face. “I’ll do it later.”

“No,” Will scolds lightly, giving her a stern look, “you’ll do it now.” He ignores the big brown eyes that he can feel on him: the ones Emilia often employs to get whatever it is that she wants. “Those only work on Papa, baby. They don’t work on me.”

The bottom of their two-story house is Hannibal’s domain: a living room converted into a small counselling office, a waiting room, and a kitchenette. Their family living space is upstairs. Just as they step inside, Will ushers Emilia forward. The girl makes it as far as the bottom step of the staircase before she’s stopped by a wiry female voice.

“Oh...hello.”

Will steps into the house and clicks the door shut behind him. He’s met in the small hallway by Hannibal’s patient; head tilted and eyes locked on to Emilia. Once she notices Will, she jolts slightly. Even though Hannibal doesn’t share his patients' information with him (and Will would never expect him to – well, at least the non-interesting ones), he does know about this woman.

Helen Weber has been Hannibal’s more frequent clients. There’s something going on with her personal life: she’s living in one of the more wealthy parts of Munich in a large townhouse with a cheating husband. Will managed to pick that much up. She’d rather spend more of her day within this house, confiding whatever she can to Hannibal – who seems to be letting this run on for too long in Will’s own opinion.

He isn’t jealous. That needs to be painfully clear. But he’d rather not see a woman whose clinginess matches that of Franklyn Froideveaux in his house for longer than necessary.

The woman tucks mousey brown hair behind her ear and drops her gaze to the ground. “Hello,” she says a bit more mildly. She takes cautionary looks at both Will and Emilia. When she speaks, her voice holds slightly firm, but has an odd tremble at the end. “ _Es tut mir Leid_ , but I see you all the time but have never gotten the chance to introduce myself.”

Will puts on a small smile. “That’s alright; I know you’re a patient.”

Her head cocks slightly, as she turns her attention back to Emilia. “Are you living in the space upstairs? Or...?”

Something coils in Will’s core. “Yeah, this is our house. Well, we live upstairs. This,” he gestures to the lower half of the house, “is my husband’s domain.”

He makes sure to put a slight subtle emphasis on _husband_.

“So that would make...” she’s still looking at Emilia.

At that, Will takes a side-step over to the girl. “This is our daughter, Mina.”

“ _Guten Abend,_ ” Emilia says. She frowns slightly at the use of her Munich-name. She’s been working on getting to a point where she can respond to her fake names just as quickly and seamlessly as she will to her actual name.

The door to the office creaks open and Hannibal steps out into the hallway. There’s a hint of a smile along the corners of his lips: as if he’s been lingering and listening to the run-in through the door. Will frowns slightly. That’s what he’s _absolutely_ been doing.

“Frau Weber,” Hannibal says from the portal of the office, “are you ready to resume your session?”

The woman keeps her eyes on the ground. The avoidance of eye contact is something painfully familiar to Will. He understands the woman slightly better when he spots the way her fingers wring together in front of her, and when she tries to school her arms to her side, her fingers twitch for something to do. The woman nods, and she wordlessly brushes past Will to head back into the small office.

For a brief moment, when Helen is inside, the only ones in the hallway are Hannibal, Will, and Emilia – who still stays stock still on the first step of the stairs. Will looks to her for a second. “Head upstairs, baby,” he says as he hands the girl her backpack. “Make a start on your homework. I’ll be up in a minute to help you.”

Emilia looks between her two fathers for a split second before turning on her heel and racing up the stairs. Will looks back to Hannibal, and really tries not to look the slight coy look on his face. “Wrap up your appointments,” he says briskly. “It’s family time now.”

“No need to be jealous, my love,” he hears the other man retort before he can move away. Making sure that the door to the office is open _just so_ , Will crowds towards Hannibal’s front and places a hand on the man’s chest. The movement sends the other back until he’s pressed against the wall.

“Wrap it up,” he says firmly, before turning on his heel and going upstairs.

 

* * *

 

 

“I want to make it absolutely clear that I’m _not_ jealous of Helen Weber.”

Will watches the door of their ensuite from their bed, already wrapped up in too many blankets and satisfied with the nest he’s made for himself. The door is opened slightly, with light streaming out on to the floor of their room. Inside, Will can just about make out Hannibal standing at the sink, rubbing a small warm cloth on his face. Even though he can make out so little of the man, Will can feel his smugness radiating outwards: crawling and inflating through the room. _It almost takes up as much space as his damn ego_.

“I have no doubt in my mind that you aren’t,” Hannibal says as he finishes up with the bathroom. He steps into their dark room, lit only by moonlight that spills in through a slight gap in the curtains. Hannibal flicks off the bathroom light, and just like that, the room has gotten that bit darker. It takes a moment for Will’s eyes to adjust, but he can hear Hannibal, sure-footed, striding over to his side of the bed. “If you feel that strongly about not having her as my patient anymore, then I’ll refer her to another counsellor.”

Will snorts against his pillow. “Refer her to a _psychiatrist_.”

Hannibal sits at the edge of their bed, undoing the strap of his watch and placing it on the bedside table. Will tries not to let his gaze linger on the man’s back for too long: strong muscle still exists there, marred only faintly by faded white lines and the now illegible Verger brand. Against his better judgement, Will finds his hand reaching for it. As his fingers gently run along the raised skin, he can feel the other man breathing change.

“It’s not even a big deal,” Will says softly, “but I don’t want anyone being too familiar with this house. Or us.” He pauses. “Or Emilia.”

At that, Hannibal glances over his shoulder.

Will sighs, but presses on. “She looked at Emilia a lot today. I don’t know if you noticed it. Most of it was before you came out,” he takes a small opportunity to poke his index finger into the centre of Hannibal’s back, “and it’s rude to listen in on conversations, by the way.”

Will’s touch is dislodged when Hannibal shuffles into bed, working around the cocoon the other man seems to have built for himself. Will moves some of it so he can lie against Hannibal’s side once he’s settled against the mattress. Will pillows his head on his usual spot: Hannibal’s shoulder, where the shoulder itself meets his neck. He remembers pressing his nose into that same space years ago, when they stood on a cliff together, and he’ll often find that he’ll wake up in the morning still pressed into that same spot.

Their conversation about Helen Weber seems to have dissipated. It’ll return, Will knows. These particular types of conversations always do.

But he casts his mind back to this afternoon: to the school gates, and to Johan. Letting the image of the man come to the forefront of his mind, his mouth sours.

“Can I ask you something?” he finds himself asking.

Will feels the other man turn his head, his nose now pressing into his mess of curls. “Of course.” Hannibal’s voice is soft now, slightly groggy, as sleep is probably starting to pull at him.

Will’s fingertips dance along the other man’s chest. “How did you used to select your kills?”

It’s a question he’s asked before. He remembers being on a boat, one that violently shook with rough Atlantic seas, and through a haze of morphine and antibiotics and being so physically close to Hannibal’s body on one shared cabin bed, he asked.

Hannibal gives him the same answer. “I only sought to kill those who did not deserve a place in the world. Those who did unsavoury acts were my main victims,” and Will feels Hannibal’s smile form as he presses his mouth to Will’s head, “but you know how my selection could vary.”

“What would be considered an _unsavoury act_ then? By your standards.”

The other man seems to mull it over for a while. In his own mind, Will knows for a fact that Hannibal has killed people for looking at them in the wrong way. After the main recuperation from their fall, and one of their first weeks within the Amalfi coast, Hannibal snapped the neck of a man who had been staring at Will at one of the small bars.

“I cannot abide rudeness. You know that.”

Will hums.

“Why are you suddenly full of questions?” Hannibal tugs Will closer to his side. Although their room is heated and their bed is covered with thick blankets, the air outside is starting to gain a vicious, chilling bite. Hannibal sighs softly through his nose. “And at such an hour.”

There’s a silent moment that falls over the room. Will shuffles, tucking his head underneath Hannibal’s chin. “Just curious, that’s all.”

 

* * *

 

 

Emilia Graham-Lecter has a nasty habit of being able to blend into walls. She’s somewhat small for her age, and with the faintest memories of her birth-parents in his mind (both equally tall people), Will presumes that maybe she’s just going to hit her growth spurt a little later.

She’s utilised her smallness, though. While he’s in his office – a small one, in comparison to Hannibal’s downstairs, but his space nonetheless – he won’t hear the door creaking open, or feel the girl’s presence behind him until she’s either flopped down on the small loveseat inside or just behind his shoulder, peering over, to see what he’s doing.

It’s going to give him a heart attack and put him into an early grave.

Today, though, his ears prick when a particularly loud _squeak_ emits from a loose floorboard just beyond the portal of the door. “Come in, Emilia,” he says, continuing to work on the last of his corrections on paper reviews for a local academic journal.

Within a blink of an eye, the girl is beside him, looking between the glasses perched on his nose and the pen in his hand, scrawling correction notes on a page. “What’re you doing?”

“Work.”

She tilts her head. “What kind of work?”

He can’t stop the small smile forming. “School work. I correct people’s mistakes. Like how your teacher corrects your homework.”

“Is it boring?”

He settles her with a brief, unimpressed look. “ _Very_ boring.” He turns back to writing.

A small quiet then falls between the two of them. Hannibal left for some seminar within the main city almost an hour ago. With Emilia off school today, it’s just the two of them in the house. With the door of his office open, he can faintly hear the T.V on in the living room: some cartoon on and long forgotten about.

“Can I talk to you about something?” the question is abrupt.

Will stops writing. He turns his head to look at her, peering over the rim of his glasses. The face that meets his haze isn’t the usual curious one of his little girl. There’s a deep set frown etched into her forehead. He sets the pen down. “Of course you can.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. “I...I don’t know how to ask about it, though.”

Will plucks his glasses from his face and sets them down on his desk. He clears away most of his work: putting the scholarly essays he still needs to work on in a pile to the side. When he pushes his chair back from the desk, he leans down and lifts Emilia up to perch on his lap. “Take your time,” he says softly.

Emilia fidgets with her hands on her lap, twirling her fingers around each other before whispering, “why did you kill my parents?”

Will’s blood freezes up in his veins. It’s always been an unsaid thing, hovering above the three of them like a red kite with its eyes on a rabbit. It’s followed them through the years: through every move that they’ve made. If anything, Will thinks it’s slowly been gaining weight: waiting to grow too heavy and fall upon them.

He just wasn’t ready for that to happen today.

Emilia senses something’s wrong with him. “I’m not angry.” Her voice is barely audible, and her eyes refuse to meet his – but it’s something linked to her anxiety, not something out of fear of him or his actions. “I’m...glad? I kinda know why you did, but I’m not sure.”

“Baby-”

“-They weren’t kind people,” she says. Her voice has hardened up slightly. “I didn’t hate them, but I didn’t love them. I love you and Papa.”

The words flowing out of her sound like they should be coming from someone older. She’s eight. _Eight_. Will’s heart hammers against his chest. With every beat, he can feel it starting to weaken his ribs. It might just burst through his chest and fall wetly on to the mahogany of his desk.

“Did you kill them because they were bad?”

The eyes that turn to finally look at him are her eyes. They’re how they’ve always been: big, brown eyes that hold such much behind them. Will swallows. “Yes,” he rasps.

Emilia breaks eye-contact to focus her attention on something on the other side of the room. She wrings her fingers on her lap. “Could...could you do it again...for someone bad?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me @ our Little Budding Sociopath, Emilia:   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> (Source of Gif: http://ultralightstyls.tumblr.com)


	33. 2021 - Encephalitis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will has a flare-up of encephalitis. Emilia doesn't know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. 
> 
> This started out as a cute response to "hey, what would it be like if Emilia helped Will through his nightmares because he always helps her". And then it spun wildly out of control. And now we're here. If I'm going to be writing angst, I'm dragging the rest of you down with me.

It’s not uncommon for Emilia to wake up in the middle of the night. When they lived in a village in rural France, she hated when it would happen. The house they lived in was old; it creaked and groaned as night fell on the village. Every little sound the house made during the night made her either burrow deep beneath her blankets and quilts, or make the seemingly perilous scramble through the darkness for her fathers’ room next door.

Now in Munich, when she wakes up at odd hours during the night, there’s the glow of street lights outside to partially illuminate the room. The night terrors have become less and less frequent due to Papa’s help, but she still gets them. Sometimes those will wake her up: and either Dad or Papa will be by her side within seconds, assuring her that she’s safe and okay. Other times, like tonight, she’ll just wake up randomly.

She’s been staring at the ceiling for a while now. Orange streaks of light slowly crawl along the rood, tendrils reaching towards her door. She patiently waits for sleep to return to her. Sometimes it does. Sometimes within moments of having woken up, she’ll nod back to sleep. Other times, sleep’s evasive.

Like tonight.

With her blankets tucked beneath her chin and her stuffed bear close to her chest, she’s spent the last couple of minutes forcing herself to fall back to sleep.

She hopes from her bed, shivering at how cold the floorboards are on her bare feet. The streetlamps outside light her room just enough for her to be able to navigate around the foot of her bed, step over abandoned clothes and toys scattered around the floor, and make it to her door. It's slightly ajar; always kept that way for her fathers to keep an eye on her during the night. Armed with her stuffed bear, she peers out into the hallway.

She pauses when she sees streams of bright light coming out from underneath her fathers’ bedroom door. She glances over to the left. The bathroom door is open, light on. Emilia frowns. Papa is meticulous in turning off all lights and closing doors when they go to bed for the night.

Before she has a chance to lean out the door, the door of her fathers’ bedroom opens. Papa steps out into the hallway, an empty glass in one of his hands, glancing back inside their room for a moment. Emilia tries to make back into the shadows of her room, but Papa has good eyes.

“Darling, why are awake at this hour?” he whispers once he’s spotted her.

Clutching her bear tighter to her chest, she shrugs her shoulders. “I can’t sleep.”

Papa’s face softens. He kneels down on one knee, lowering to her height. “It appears that no one can sleep tonight, then.”

Emilia glances over her Papa’s shoulder to her fathers’ room. Papa sighs. “Your father is having a rough night, I’m afraid. I’m going to get him a glass of water. I would appreciate it if you could watch over him for me while I’m gone.” She can hear the shuffling of bedding inside the room. Emilia nods firmly.

Papa stands, placing his hand on the top of her head. He smiles warmly at her before heading for the stairs. When he’s halfway down, she moves, crossing the landing and peering inside her fathers’ room. She doesn’t come in often; preferring to spend time elsewhere in the large house. But her fathers’ have a lot of interesting things in their room. She’s allowed in when she’s sick, and when she’s nestled on the bed alongside either father, she likes looking at all of the decorations and books and trinkets dotted around the room. What catches her attention is how Dad is sitting up against the headboard of the bed, knees drawn up to his chest, and face in his hands.

Her eyebrows knit together. “Daddy?”

She hears him sniff harshly before he looks up. A smile is painted on. “Hey baby,” he says, lowering his knees slightly. “What’re you doin’ up?”

His words sound funny, Emilia thinks as she takes one small step into the room. “I couldn’t sleep,” she says simply. With a tilt of her head, she asks, “why are you awake?”

A dry laugh escapes his throat. “I couldn’t sleep either, baby.” He shuffles over slightly, freeing up a crevasse for her to hop into. “Come on.”

She clears the room in a couple of quick strides before Dad helps hoist her up on to the bed. Her fathers’ bed is bigger than hers, and taller. Whenever she wants up, it’s like climbing a mountain. She’s helped nestle into a small gap between where Papa would sleep and where Dad is. With some rearranging of blankets and quilts to keep the winter nip away, they settle.

“Papa went to get you water,” she says, words slightly muffled when she brings her blankets up to her mouth in an effort to warm up. She glances up at him. “He said that I have to keep an eye on you until he comes back.”

Dad chuckles. “Well, I’m glad to have you protecting me.”

Emilia preens, then with a gasp, fumbles to pull her stuffed bear from underneath the sheets. “And Artemis!” she holds up the bear for Dad to see. It's a simple design – amber coloured fur, soft, button nose, and beaded eyes. It was a Christmas present from both of her fathers’, but had spent the last year undergoing a series of name changes every two weeks.

Nothing seemed to suit the bear’s personality – as Emilia stated when Papa once asked about it – but they were learning about the Greek gods in _Grundschule_ , and Artemis was mentioned.

Dad smiles: one that crinkles his eyes, so Emilia knows it’s a real one. “Is that her final name, then?”

Emilia nods firmly. “Artemis was the Greek goddess of the hunt,” she recites from what they learned in school, “and of the moon! So she can help me keep watch.”

She opts to snuggle into his side, keeping the ear firmly held on her chest. Even with the main overhead lights on in the room, sleep pulls at her. It’s a struggle to keep her eyes open. But Papa had given her a task: one that she needs to complete.

Dad smiles down at her. “Thank you both for protecting me.” He says warmly, before nudging the bear’s foot with his knuckles.

Distantly, she can hear Papa shuffling and moving around downstairs. “Why are you awake?” she asks, plucking at some stray fluff from Artemis’ rounded ear.

“I couldn’t sleep, baby. I told you.”

“Yeah, but why can’t you sleep?”

Dad snorts lightly. “For being half-asleep, you’re full of questions.”

She rubs a closed fist at one eye. “I’m not half-asleep,” she protests, swallowing a yawn before it can leave her. Dad starts running his fingers through her hair, combing it out and letting it fall over her shoulder.

“Remember when you had that nightmare last week, baby?” he asks softly. “And I said that Daddy gets them too?”

Emilia glances up. “Did you have a nightmare?” she asks, her voice quiet.

Dad nods. Emilia’s brows knit together when she sees something flash across his face. “Was it scary?”

She hears him suck in a small, sharp breath. “Really scary.”

“What was it about?” she buries her nose into the blankets. “Monsters?” Because they plague her own nightmares. 

“Scary monsters.” Dad huddles her closer to his side. Artemis is pressed against them. “They were very mean and scary. But I’m okay now. I got you and Papa-”

“-And Artemis-”

“-And Artemis.”

A floorboard out on the landing creaks and Emilia almost jumps out of her skin. Papa stands in the doorway, a glass of water in hand. “Everything okay?”

Happy that it isn’t a monster, but just Papa, Emilia nods. “I kept Dad safe.”

A soft smile spreads over Papa’s face. “You did a wonderful job, darling.” Papa walks over to Dad’s side of the bed and sets the glass on the nightstand. Emilia spots a couple of small plastic bottles with thick white caps scattered on the table too. She knows Dad gets sick, but she’s never seen that many bottles before. A quick look from Papa diverts her attention elsewhere.

“Your father is sick, darling,” he says softly, “and will be ill for some time.”

She tilts her head. “Like I was?”

Papa shakes his head. “It’s a bit more serious than the flu, I’m afraid-”

“-Hannibal.” Dad’s voice is sharp. It makes Emilia slink down underneath the blankets. He rarely uses that voice, but she’s heard it once or twice when he’s mad. She’s stopped from completely disappearing by an arm that Dad has wrapped around her middle. When he turns away from Papa, his face softens. “Sorry, baby. I just don’t want you to worry about me.”

Papa’s gaze flickers over to Emilia.

“You worry about me when I’m sick,” she mumbles, “why can’t I worry about you?”

“Because we’re your guardians. We have to worry about you,” Papa cuts in. “You have no obligation to worry for us.” Emilia doesn’t argue with it.

She ends up sleeping in their room that night. And the night after. And the night after.

During those nights, Dad has nightmares. She’s already awake when she hears the telltale sound of the landing floorboards creaking as Papa leaves their room to get Dad medicine. She takes that slim opportunity to cross the landing to her fathers’ room; and assumed her usual spot by Dad’s side.

Sometimes Dad’s half asleep when she gets there. Other times, and what she doesn’t like seeing, Dad is awake and trying to hide the fact that he’s been crying. It’s like the first night she slipped in: when she appears at the doorway, he’ll try to get the redness from his eyes. But she sees it. And it makes her chest hurt. She always brings Artemis with her. One night, after a particularly bad nightmare, she hands the bear to Dad when she’s lying beside him. At his puzzled look, she explains: “I want you to keep Artemis for now. She’s helped me with my nightmares. She’ll help you.”

She sees Dad’s eyes grow red again, before he sniffs lightly. “Thank you, baby.” He doesn’t take the bear, of course: it’s hers. But before she goes back to her own bed, she’ll wander into her fathers’ room before they come up to tuck her in, place Artemis on Dad’s side of the bed, propped up by pillows, and lets her do her duty. By the time she wakes up, Artemis is in her own bed, cuddled close.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s like that for almost a week. As Emilia sits at the dining table one morning, waiting for Papa to finish plating up breakfast, she glances over to the other side of the table. Dad’s usual spot is vacant.

“Is Dad still sick?”

Finished with plating a simple protein scramble, Papa walks over to the dining table and sets the plate with the smaller portion in front of Emilia. He sets down his own plate before he nods. “Unfortunately, darling. He’s getting better, but it’s slow. It’s going to take some time before he’s back to his usual self.”

Emilia plucks up her cutlery before moving some of the scramble around. She’s not particularly hungry, and Papa would never force her to eat anything, but she’s still in a sulk about being brought to school. She’d rather stay at home and look after Dad like she’s been doing all week. With a slight huff of a sigh, she shovels some eggs on to her fork and lifts it to her mouth.

“I know you’d rather be at home today, darling,” Papa says, “but your father would want you to carry on your day as normal.”

Emilia huffs.

“When you come home,” Papa continues, setting down his cutlery to dab a napkin on the corner of Emilia’s lip, “I will entrust your father’s care to you.”

 _It’s something_ , Emilia thinks as she finishes off the rest of her breakfast.

 

* * *

 

 

She wakes up one night to screaming.

 For a brief, terrifying moment, what flashes before her are memories of the boat and of her first meeting with Dad. It dissipates as soon as she starts to catch her breath. It speeds up again when she realises that the screaming belongs to her Dad. 

She almost trips as she tries to untangle herself from her bedsheets and rush out of her room. The landing light is on, as is the light in her fathers’ room. The door is open. As Emilia crosses the landing and peers inside, her breath is caught in her throat.

Dad’s sitting upright in bed, holding Papa close to him in a hug. He has his face buried into Papa’s neck: his arms tight around the other’s midsection. Emilia can see how his shoulders shake with the force of sobs that are punching out of him.

Papa has a phone pressed to his ear. “Yes, it’s quite severe,” he says in a voice that is all too calm. Emilia can feel her heart hammering against her ribcage.

There’s a pause – one filled by Dad’s uneven, loud breathing. “Of course, I’ll meet you there in ten minutes. Thank you, Doctor Roth.”

Papa hangs up the phone and slides it into his pocket. It’s only now that Emilia realises that Papa is fully-dressed in a sweater and trousers. He manages to uncoil Dad’s arms from around him and hold him back for a moment. “Was it as severe as last time, Will?” his voice still steady.

Dad’s eyes are unfocused: clouded with unshed tears. He shakes his head. “It’s worse,” he rasps, before a sob wretches out of his throat. Papa frames Dad’s face with both of his hands before pressing a firm kiss on Dad’s forehead. Dad seems to relax slightly, before another tremble racks through his body. Papa rocks him gently – like he would do with her when she was little. It helps calm Dad down a little bit, but he’s still crying. Emilia’s heart pangs within her chest. She doesn’t like seeing either of her fathers’ sad or upset. It has happened a couple of times, when she’ll wander into a room and either of them could be in various stages of crying. Still, it doesn’t make it easier to look at.

She almost misses at how Papa turns to look over his shoulder at her. When their eyes meet, Papa’s mouth purses into a hard line. He turns back to Dad. He mumbles something, before kissing him gently on the top of his head – hair covered in sweat – and gets up from their bed. Papa crosses the room within strides.

“Darling, go and get dressed. We’re taking your father to the hospital,” Papa says, placing a firm hand on her shoulder to guide her out of the room.

Emilia tilts her head. “Why is he going to the hospital?”

“To see a neurologist.”

Emilia’s face scrunches up at the word.

“A doctor who cares for the brain,” he translates, turning to start milling around the room to gather some things: a couple of Dad’s shirts, a few trousers, and shoes. He plucks a duffle bag out from underneath their bed: Emilia’s heart clenches.

“Are we moving again?” she asks. That’s a bag they use for moving.

Papa looks down at the bag and then at her. “No, darling. This is for if Doctor Roth thinks we should stay at the hospital overnight.” He continues to fold up the spare clothes. “Now, go get dressed. I don’t want to leave you here by yourself.”

Emilia tilts her head. She’s coming? Before she can ask, Papa sends her a hard look. With that, she turns on her heel and runs back to her room. She grabs a simple shirt, sweater, skirt and her boots. Her coat is hanging by the door downstairs. She can grab that when they’re leaving. With slightly trembling hands she manages to change into her clothes. Perched on her messy bed, still lying propped up by her pillows, is Artemis. Emilia takes a second to look between her room’s open door and her bed, before grabbing the bear and leaving.

Within minutes, they’re all gathered out on the landing and starting to walk down the stairs. With the bag on his back, Papa uses one arm to guide Dad down the stairs step by step. Emilia follows at least three steps behind. With their coats plucked from hangars by the front door, they move to the car. Emilia rushes forward, content to get in herself. She climbs in without much trouble, and watches as Papa helps Dad into the passenger seat. “We’re going to meet Derek at the hospital,” he says softly, buckling up Dad’s seatbelt. Papa looks up at him. “Do you remember Derek?”

Dad takes a while to nod, but Papa seems happy enough with the response. Emilia does up her own seatbelt, and once Papa is in the driver’s seat, they’re ready to go.

 

* * *

 

 

Emilia’s never been in a hospital before, but almost immediately upon arriving, she realises that she hates them. They smell weird. The place is way too clean and white and blindly bright. She sticks to Papa’s side as they enter the hospital. It’s a private hospital, according to Papa, so when they get to the reception, there’s a man pulling on a long, white coat waiting for them. “Doctor Miller,” he says, slightly out of breath. Emilia looks at his face: his features are sunken in, and he has really dark circles around his eyes. They’re made darker by the sheer bright lights above them. He must have been woken up by Papa’s call, then.

“Doctor Roth,” Papa greets in return. Dad is on Papa’s other side, leaning slightly into Papa and clutching at one of Papa’s arms.

Doctor Roth takes one look at Dad before his face blanches. “ _Scheiß,_ yes, well I see what you mean when you said _severe_ ,” he says, summoning a small torch from his coat pocket and shining it into Dad’s eyes.

A dry laugh manages to wrangle its way from Dad’s throat. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Derek.” He winces at the sudden bright light, scrunching his eyes shut and turning his face to Papa’s shoulder.

“We’ll get him an MRI at once,” Doctor Roth says to Papa, turning to look at the receptionist. “Inform radiology that I have a personal patient coming up. It’s critical.”

The woman behind the desk nods firmly before using the phone to call up to the department. Emilia shuffles closer to Papa’s hip. The movement catches the doctor’s eye. “Oh,” he looks up at Papa.

“It was too short notice to organise any babysitter to come and watch her for a while. We had to bring her with her.” Papa’s free hand goes to the top of her head. It’s reassuring.

The doctor looks between her and Papa before sighing. “Yes, well, she’ll have to wait outside while we perform tests.”

That seems fine to Papa, just nods. Within a few seconds, they’re being led down a brightly lit corridor. Emilia sticks to Papa’s side, reaching for his free hand to hold in hers. His other arm is busy supporting Dad. While they walk, Doctor Roth is speaking. Emilia scrunches her face at a lot of big words that the doctor uses: but Papa seems to understand just fine. He nods and hums and agrees: and suddenly they’re striding through large white double doors to a separate ward of the hospital. It’s clean and sleek and _white_ , Emilia notes, as her eyes adjust to the slight change of light. The smell of disinfectant assaults her nose.

Her grip on Papa’s hand tightens.

 

* * *

 

 

The longer she spends in the hospital, the more she grows to hate it. She’s been sitting in the same hard plastic chair outside the examination room for what seems like hours. With a quick glance up at a nearby clock near the ward’s reception, she almost huffs when it informs her that it’s only been fifteen minutes. Every so often, a nurse dressed in pale blue clothes will wander past. Only a couple have seen her. And only a handful of them have given her brief sympathetic looks when they spot the consultation room door beside her.

One of the ladies at the reception had wandered over during her vigil. Emilia warily regarded the woman for a moment, and declined her very nice offer of a glass of orange squash. The lady then commented on the cute bear held closely to Emilia’s chest. Emilia just buried her nose into Artemis’ plush fur head.

Since then, she’s been waiting alone.

The door to the room suddenly clicks and Emilia’s head whips around just in time to see Papa step back out into the hallway. All at once, her heart – that had been hammering against her ribcage within anxiety – starts to slow down to a steady beat. There’s an empty seat beside her: Papa takes it.

“Your father is quite ill, _mylima_ ,” he says levelly. When Emilia looks down, she sees Papa wringing his hands together. “Doctor Roth thinks that this is a flare-up of an illness he’s had before. But it’s never been this bad.”

Emilia bites the inside of her cheek. “What’s wrong with him?”

Papa sighs. “It’s called encephalitis. Your father’s brain...it’s swollen and inflamed.”

The image of it flashes in her mind. She can feel the sudden sting of tears at the back of her eyes. “Will he be okay?”

Papa looks over to her before nodding firmly. “Yes, _mylima_ , he’ll be just fine. Doctor Roth knows what needs to be done.” One of his hands reaches out to gather hers. “But he’ll be weak for a while. We can bring him home. I promised Doctor Roth that I would keep watch over him while he’s at home with us.”

“Can I help?” A single tear manages to escape, trailing down her cheek and splashing on to her thigh. Papa clicks his tongue before drying her cheek with his thumb.

“Of course you can, darling. I’ll tell the school that you’ll be absent for a while.”

The door clicks open again and Emilia sees Doctor Roth’s head poke out into the hallway. “Doctor Miller?” His voice is gentle. Papa looks between him and Emilia for a moment before settling his gaze on Emilia. He brings her hands up to press a kiss on her knuckles.

“Everything will be fine, darling,” he says firmly, before standing. He brushes a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Doctor Roth and I just have to run over a couple of things. Then we can go home.”

The thought of finally being able to leave the hospital almost makes her sob. Instead, she nods. She can wait another couple of minutes.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s been three days since getting home from the hospital. Since then, Emilia’s been a permanent fixture at the side of Dad’s bedside. Sometimes, if Papa ever mentions that he needs something – like a glass of water, or a piece of fruit from downstairs – she’ll be the one to scurry down the stairs and fetch it. Other times, when Papa leaves the room, she’ll root herself either to the side of the bed, or just take her usual spot on the middle of the bed. She’ll keep her vigil over her father until Papa comes back.

Dad spends most of the day asleep. During the minor moments when he’s awake, they’ll talk to each other. It started with Dad frowning and scolding her lightly for not being at school. It then fizzled out to Emilia telling him about a new cartoon series that had just started on Nicktoons.

It’s a struggle to get her to sleep in her own room. Even with reassurances from Papa that both doors to her and their room will be open, and they’re only a landing away from each other, she still insists on being in their room. While he’ll try and get her to sleep in her own room, Papa doesn’t try and remove her from the bed when she’s fallen asleep by Will’s side: head pillowed on his shoulder, Artemis held between the two of them, and the blankets kicked to various edges of the bed. Hannibal will try to silently and carefully slip into his side of the bed before turning on his side to regard them both. Before sleep comes, he has a few tender moments to take in the sight of his two loves.

And it isn’t lost on him that, with Emilia by his side, the nightmares don’t bother plaguing him.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: yourqueenforayear.tumblr.com
> 
> (This was created because I was left alone with my head for an hour at work.)


End file.
